It started as an ordinary, late-November day — no sun, no snow, no wind, no rain, no leaves, no flowers. There was nothing that brought joy, nothing that brought excitement, nothing that brought fear. It was one of those days when you couldn’t imagine anything but dull and grey.
It was noon and I was still in my pyjamas; I’d managed to do some work, but I wasn’t in the mood. I’d just made myself another cup of tea when the doorbell rang.
I opened the door to a man who said he was a process server and asked me if I was Ellen Barret. When I nodded, he said, “I have an envelope here which you must sign for”. I signed, wished him a good day and took the envelope inside.
The envelope was from McDonald, McDonald and Jones, Barristers and Solicitors. As I ripped it open I wondered what a process server might be and why I had a letter from a legal firm. My heart beat more rapidly as I remembered the guy on the bike who I’d almost run into a couple of weeks ago. No, it wouldn’t be him, he said he was OK and anyway he didn’t ask for my name or address.
I opened the letter and read:
Dear Ms. Barret
REGARDING THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF HAROLD BARRET
I am the executor of your late father’s estate and I write to advise you that we are making a final distribution of Mr. Barret’s estate to the heirs and as stated in his last Will, he requested that you be told in person of his wishes.
In this regard, we would like to arrange a meeting and I would be pleased if you could contact me at 416-666-8800 or by email at tms@MMJ.com
I understand this may come as a surprise to you and as you may be anxious to hear further of this request, I have instructed my secretary to clear my calendar to accommodate the date and time which best suits you.
Yours sincerely
Thomas McDonald, Snr.
My face I am sure turned as grey as the day. What the fuck. I hadn’t spoken to my father in years. For all intents and purposes, I was an orphan. My parents had eloped at 17 when they learned my mother was pregnant. My mother’s parents refused to speak to their daughter and when she died giving birth to me it was as if I had died with their daughter. My father’s parents were angry not because of the eloping but because he’d done it with a girl way beneath his social class. My father never reconciled with them. He just made it his business to climb even higher up the ladder than his father had.
I was raised by a series of nannies and my father’s occasional girlfriend or wife who happened to be okay with kids. As far as I know, despite a very long line of relationships (or floozies as I called them), my father never sired another child. I ran away when I was 16, my father never bothered to look for me and I never bothered to go back. Last I heard through social media he was married to a woman named Melanie Moore who is younger than me.
Now, what the fuck was I to do? I hated the man – I didn’t want to accept anything from him — dead or alive. I never had and, I always swore, I never would. He’d become wealthy and well-known in society and political circles — a ruthless businessman and a womanizer. At one time, I had tried to track my mother’s family. Her parents — my grandparents — had immigrated to Canada from England, her mother had been an only child and her father had two sisters who had married and immigrated to Australia.
I often thought of my mother. Sometimes I swear I could hear her singing, it was always the same soothing soft and lilting sound. But how could that be? She died before she even held me in her arms. Sometimes I would pretend she was alive and ask her advice about this or that. It was probably my imagination but she always answered.
And so as I stood there with the letter in my hand, I asked her, “What am I to do? Mummy, tell me what should I do?” Clear as a bell, I heard her whisper, “Go find out dear what’s there to lose.”
Then I called my best friend Anna and told her. She came straight over to my apartment and many hours and glasses of wine later, she convinced me that my mother was right – what had I to lose?
The next morning I got an appointment with Mr. Thomas McDonald senior for the following day.
I was so nervous. I could feel the sweat running down the back of my neck as I sat in his large office with its wall-to-wall shelving full of books, mostly dark blue or black with gold lettering on their spines. Mr. McDonald himself was a tiny man with a ruddy complexion sitting behind a desk that was bigger than he was and behind him was a huge window that I could see overlooked Lake Ontario.
“Thank you for coming in Miss Barret. I understand you did not have a relationship with your father so this might come as a surprise.
“I did hear on the news that he died quite a few months ago but I know nothing more than that,” I replied in a very matter-of-fact tone.
“Yes it was unexpected but he had his affairs in order and his last Will makes it clear that you are to inherit …
… He paused, I held my breath
“A large property that he owned in New Zealand.”
Bloody hell – I think I yelled that out very loudly – maybe even screamed – what the heck do I want with a large property in New Zealand? What’s the catch?
Mr. McDonald continued – indeed it is known to be the largest sheep station in New Zealand – 100,000 acres running parallel to the shores of Lake Wakatipu in the South Island. I understand it has about 30,000 sheep and 2,000 cattle.
“A sheep station with millions of sheep and a bunch of bloody cows,” I mumble.
Mr. McDonald carried on as if I’d not spoken, “It is managed by a competent station director and his wife who live in the homestead with their children. There is also a multitude of staff including stock managers, shepherds, farm hands, cooks and handymen. In no way did your father intend for you to live there or even visit. He wished for you to become the owner. A year or two ago when we discussed his Will, he told me he wanted you to inherit Rose Station because your mother always dreamed of living in the country and raising a bunch of sheep.”
“My mother – he’s had a million girlfriends since then,” I said sarcastically. I laughed out loud and added, “And a million sheep.”
“Now Ms. Barret there is a little paperwork and some formalities which we can do another day as I am sure you need some time to yourself.”
As I stumbled out the door toward the elevator I wondered what it would feel like to jump from this high up – I imagined the wind would take my breath away and I decided that was how I felt right this minute as if I was falling from the 52nd floor of the TD Centre.
****
On my next appointment with Mr. McDonald, I learned that my father had arranged for a law firm to manage the financial affairs of the station and I was the owner in name only. However, should I wish to take a more active role, I was to contact Cole Lovelock from Williams, Lovelock and Kettle in Wellington, New Zealand. The name of the station, I learned, was Rose Station. Yep – my mother’s name was Ellen Rose.
Six months passed. I drove my friend Anna crazy. She tried not to show her frustration but I am sure she was fed up hearing about sheep stations in general, my station in particular, and New Zealand and everything I read about the country and its beauty.
“Should I go, should I not? I wonder if I’m allowed to sell it – should I sell it?”
One day Anna did say to me with a deep sigh, “Ellen, will you ever be truly happy or know what you want until you’ve seen the place? I remember how patient you were with me when I was on again, off again with Billie Read and you asked me if I ever would know for sure which way to go until I had slept with him. Well, this is like that.”
And my poor dead mother, over the years I often had short conversations and mostly those were when I heard her voice and often it was after I had seen a rose. But now I was relentless and it was all one-sided. I think she just listened. In the past, I wasn’t much interested in my father but now I asked about him — what was he like when he was young, what about their relationship, about how he treated her but most of all I’d ask, “Mama should I go check out the station?”
Her presence was calming. I felt cradled in her arms and in her caring but she never really answered my questions. Until one beautiful spring day when the gardens were awash with colour, pink and purple, peonies and pansies, butterflies and baby birds, soft green grass and bright blue sky I heard her say, “Let it be my darling, let it be.”
And I knew then for sure that for now, I would remain right here in Toronto an absentee owner of the Rose Station. I heard her say, “One day there will be an answer but for now, let it be.”
