The Rectory

by Ivan B

  It took us half an hour to find the warehouse in the maze that is Felixstowe docks, when we did find it my heart sank as stacked outside were the most distorted containers I had ever seen. Yolande carefully parked her van and we entered on foot. Finding the manager was easy and he swiftly led us to a bright blue container that stood in semi isolation. The manager, a sort of mix between a night-club bouncer and a sumo wrestler, puckered his face.

  “Have you been apprised on the situation?” He said in a dead-pan bow-bell accent.

  “Not been told anything,” Yolande replied.

  He screwed up his nose and sucked in his cheeks like a plumber about to give an estimate.

  “It came over as deck cargo – it’s cheaper that way and normally no problem.” He sucked in some breath, “However…”

  He said ‘however’ as if it had six syllables all run together. It’s the sort of ‘however’ you get from garage mechanics when they have bad news and large bills to impart.

  “However,” he said, “However, the container isn’t watertight, least the top of it isn’t. There are about twenty-five inch diameter holes. Basically the ship ran through some heavy weather, the holes let the water in, but the rest of the container was watertight, so it stayed in. When we opened it up two of my lads got a right soaking.”

  He said it as if we were responsible.

  He yanked open the door to the container and two things struck me, firstly the smell of dank and sodden contents and the second that whatever was in there would be a total write-off. Yolande wrinkled her nose.

  “Anything salvageable?”

  He checked his clipboard.

  “Whoever packed the container put the clothes in sealed plastic bags, so they’re OK. We saved about forty CDs, the discs are OK, but the covers are useless. There’s two plastic bags full of paperwork – again OK – and a Spanish guitar, that was wrapped in cling-film. Otherwise it’s all a write-off.”

  I muttered something about the Holme’s curse and Yolande dug me in the ribs.

  “Is the container yours?”

  The manager smiled, “I can see where you’re coming from madam and no it isn’t, it was privately hired, we’re just here as a handling agent. He handed over a letter to her.

  “Get your sister to send this off to her insurance company, it’s a letter from us detailing that over 90% of the contents by volume are irredeemably water damaged. They should pay out on that.”

  He waved to someone over the other side of the warehouse, “Now, do you want to take the salvaged stuff with you?”

  We had it put into her van, it was a pathetically small pile not really enough to fill a medium sized suitcase. We sat in the front seats and Yolande surveyed it through the wire mesh behind the seats.

  “All that furniture, just destroyed.”

  “It’s the Holme’s curse,” I told her.

  She crossed her arms.

  “I don’t want any of that nonsense, it’s just a natural disaster, besides I thought your brother was different from you.”

  I gave a foolish grin.

  “Let me see now. I believe he broke his leg riding his first bicycle because a stabiliser broke in two. At seven he managed to get his head stuck in railings. Twelve he put his foot down a drain in the dark because some drunk had used the cover as a Frisbee. Need I say more?”

  She both crossed her hands and tapped her feet, was this some warning sign I should heed?

  “And what about your sisters?” She asked.

  “Not real sisters are they. Don’t think that they’ve had a broken fingernail between them.”

  “So everything you touch turns to dross?”

  I was so down about my brother’s belongings that I nearly answered in the affirmative, fortunately man’s built in need for survival flashed a warning across my brain.

  “Not everything, after all I’ve got you.”

  I suddenly dawned on me that I’d been neglecting her and because of my brother’s illness I’d hardly seen her for the last week or so. I moved closer,

  “And I think you’ve been marvellous with Effie and I’m sorry if I neglected you, it’s just that…”

  She changed from arms crossed toe-tapping woman to loving fiancée and planted a kiss straight on my lips. She murmured, “That’s alright, I was just beginning to wonder if you were taking me for granted.”

  I don’t know what overcame me, but I gave an honest reply. “Actually that’s partially true, you’ve given me a little area of stability that I’ve come to rely on.”

  I was rewarded with a dark foreboding frown, I hastily sought to expand on me statement.

  “I guess it’s a bonus you get when you find the right woman, one you know you love and you know is good for you.”

  An eyebrow rose and her eyes sparkled.

  “Say that again.”

  I desperately tried to recall what I’d said.

  “I guess it’s a bonus you get when you find the right woman, one you know you know is good for you and one you love.”

  She suddenly became philosophical.

  “How do you know you love me, after all what is love?”

  She put a hand on me chest.

  “Direct answer please, not one you think I might like to here.”

  I wondered how picking up Mark and Effie’s effects had got us to this conversation.

  “Because I miss you deeply when you’re not around, worry about you every second of the day, dream about you all the time and feel a like a million dollars when you’re close.”

  I was rewarded with a kiss. When we parted I murmured, “What’s brought this on?”

  “Effie,” she answered. “I really think she would have starved to death rather than leave Mark’s bedside when he was in intensive care. I never realised that people could care so much for one another.”

  She looked me in the eye.

  “What would you do if I walked out on you? Blame it on your stupid Holmes curse and move on?”

  I contemplated the possibility of her walking out and burst into tears. It wasn’t just what she said and the mental glimpse that I’d had of how I might feel if she left me, though that was the main component. It was also the relief that my brother was getting better and the stress of the past fortnight. She gazed at me for all of two seconds and then put her arms around me. She softly murmured in my ear.

  “Don’t cry, I love you.”

  She said a lot more to me and I said a lot more to her, it was one of the tenderest and most precious moments that we’d ever had together, and I’m not saying any more here.

  Mark and Effie stoically took the news of the loss of their furniture, but in retrospect it probably paled into insignificance against Mark’s recovery. Inevitably the container wasn’t insured so it was a total loss for them. Almost a lifetime’s possessions destroyed by water, but at least they were both alive.

  Later that evening Yolande and I, after moving the kitchen table through ninety degrees because she though it made ‘more room’, were having a cup of hot chocolate in the kitchen when Yolande fidgeted on her stool. She peered downwards.

  “Rats we must see to that flagstone because it rocks as it’s not settled properly.”

  She moved the stool and we continued to cuddle and drink our chocolate. Some indefinable moment later the same thought crossed both our minds. We examined the flagstone; Yolande produced a crowbar and we prised it up. Lying underneath it were a dozen or so startled earwigs and a floor safe.

  Chapter 24

  Floor Safe

  I peered at the horizontal door of the floor safe and the large keyhole in its centre.

  “I haven’t got a key that size.” I muttered.

  Yolande knelt down and brushed some dirt away from a small engraved label.

  “Says here that the safe was made in 1946, that means t was probably put in when they extended the kitchen after the war.”

  I surveyed the keyhole again, I definitely didn’t hadn’t seen a key that would f
it lying around the house.

  “So I suppose Mr Grant might not have known it was here.”

  Yolande shifted her nose from side to side.

  “You say you haven’t got a key?”

  “Not that size.”

  We stared at the door for a few minutes and I wondered about calling out a locksmith. Yolande reached down, twisted the handle and opened the safe door revealing an opening about eight inches square. A spider the size of a golf ball crawled out and scurried away, Yolande didn’t even flinch. She put her hand in the safe and brought out a clear plastic tube full of £2 coins. I immediately recognised what she had. “That’s a ton tube.”

  She raised an eyebrow, I was becoming besotted with the way she raised her eyebrows.

  “It’s a tube containing £100 in £2 coins, we used them in the bank.”

  She reached in and pulled out some more tubes and laid them side by side, in doing so she disturbed a veritable nest of golf-ball spiders, again she didn’t turn a hair; I made sure that my feet were well out of the way. As Yolande pulled them out I counted the tubes, “That’s £1200.”

  Yolande sat back onto her heels.

  “Guess that’s what you call an emergency fund.”

  “Anything else?”

  She brushed her hands together.

  “Not before I have a look down there with a torch, spiders I don’t mind, but rats…”

  She gave a small shiver. I walked over to her toolbox, picked up a torch and knelt down beside her. We shone the light in, nestling in the bottom of the safe was a small tin box rather like a miniature biscuit tin. Yolande eased it out and brushed it down, the top boasted a picture of a happy camel and the proud proclamation that the tin contained no less than 200 of the finest Egyptian cigarettes. Before she opened the tin we had another look in the safe, it was now empty save for two large keys lying in the bottom. She tried to open the tin, but couldn’t free the top. I had a go, to nil effect. One thing was for sure, whatever was in the tin was not light. She peered at the tin.

  “It’s been soldered shut, see there’s a blob of solder at each corner.”

  At that point I would have resorted to a tin opener if just to try and reduce my heart rate, but Yolande was made of sterner stuff and she plugged in her soldering iron. It seemed to take an eternity to warm up.

  What seemed like ages later there was a gently plop and the lid came off the tin. We gazed inside, it was absolutely brim full of jewellery. Diamonds sparkled, rubies glinted, sapphires shone and there was the distinct lustre of gold. However, this I could not keep.

  “You still got that business card,” I asked.

  Yolande nodded, “I’ll give her a ring in the morning.”

  I tried to consider how much this little lot was worth and gave up. I made an executive decision.

  “I think I’ll stick this in the safe downstairs, seems kinda crazy to leave it in that flimsy cubby-hole.”

  I took the jewelry down into the basement and locked it in the large safe. Before I did so I carefully tipped it all out, just in case there was a brown envelope in the bottom of the tin; needles to sat there wasn’t.

  By the time I got back upstairs Yolande was sitting back at the table grinning like a cat who’d found the cream. Laying in front of her was a neatly folded brown envelope. When I sat down she slid it over to me.

  “Have you opened it?”

  “Rather thought that you’d like the pleasure, after all the moneys is yours.”

  I was intrigued.

  “Where was it?”

  She put on her grinning cat look again.

  “I remembered what he’d done with the safe downstairs, you know hidden stuff under the bottom plate. This safe hasn’t got a bottom plate as it just sits in a hole and is held down by four snap-off rawbolts. However, there is a gap between the safe and the hole its in so this was just tucked down the side. And before you look there’s nothing down the other sides, I checked.”

  I carefully straightened out the envelope and opened the flap. Inside were three bits of paper, two bearer bonds and a bank deposit note. I showed them to Yolande and whispered, that’s £29,635.26 more for our coffers.”

  She flicked the note.

  “What’s this?”

  Here I was on firm ground. “It’s a bank deposit slip. Mr Grant has lodged something with The Royal and Ancient Bank of Scotland, which if not collected will be disposed of, without opening, after fifty years.”

  Yolande raised her eyebrows and my pulse went up, was this some kind of Pavlovian response?

  “Scotland? He left it in Scotland?”

  Now it was my turn to grin.

  “No Ipswich, there used to be a branch there, it was taken over by the Mutually Assured Building Society when they became a bank, not that they’re a real bank because they don’t do transfer banking.”

  Yolande waved a finger at me.

  “Oh do I detect some snobbery?”

  I tried not to look elitist.

  “They changed their name to The Scottish Assured Banking Society, commonly called SCABS in the trade.”

  Yolande didn’t even smile.

  “So will they have this?”

  “Definitely, looks like another job for tomorrow, can you come?”

  She shook her head.

  “Working with dad at the prison. They had a fire in the kitchen and took out all the extractor hoods.”

  She suddenly changed tack.

  “What you going to do with all these £2 coins.”

  “What millions of other people do, save them for a rainy day.”

  Yolande gave me one of her heart blistering smiles.

  “And there’s me thinking I’m unique. I’ve been saving £2 coins for years in an old demijohn.”

  “How much you got?”

  I don’t know,” she murmured, “they’re for my wedding dress and I’ve never counted.”

  I put my arm round her.

  “Well you’ll have to start counting soon.”

  The rest of the conversation was lost in a long, slow, hormone awakening kiss.

  Monday morning I travelled to London and cashed in the bearer bonds. Once again Tasmine tried to sell me some investments even to the extent of giving me a glossy brochure, but seeing as investments can go down as well as up I’d already decided to bin the brochure without reading it. Once back in Ipswich I sought out The Scottish Assured Banking Society. Now, despite Yolande’s remarks, I am not a banking snob of any kind, it’s just that having working in a bank you sort of get tuned in to how a bank should function, particularly in the area of customer care. My bank had taken great pains to send me on several customer care courses despite the fact that I was really the lowest of the low. However, SCABS had a reputation for sending it’s bank clerks on courses run by the descendants of Atilla the Hun and I was curious to see how I would be treated. I walked into a plush green carpeted banking area that had glass fronted counters down one side and a reception/enquire desk in the middle. Foolishly I chose the reception point, which was staffed by a severe looking woman dressed in the two-piece suit in the bank’s vile vomit yellow. She fixed me with her hard blue eyes.

  “Yes?”

  Now there are many ways of saying ‘yes’ in a friendly manner, this was not one of them. I showed her my deposit slip.

  “I have some stuff stored here and I’d like to remove it.”

  She made a face like a sour lemon.

  “That is really inconvenient on a Monday. Thursday would be better.”

  I gave her my best customer care smile to show her how it should be done.

  “I’d rather like it now.”

  I was treated to a superior scowl.

  “Then come back after 3pm.”

  As the customer care smile hadn’t worked I tried the ‘I’ll stand no nonsense annoyed customer gaze.’

  “I’d rather like it now.”

  My stance rolled off her like water off a duck’s back.

  “We don’
t have the staff to go poking about in the safe on a Monday.”

  I began to get annoyed.

  “That’s your problem, under the banking charter you are obliged to return my property when I ask provided that I do so in banking hours and have the requisite paperwork.”

  Off to the left I heard one of the cashiers berating a customer for having the temerity to pay in a bundle of notes without making sure that they all faced the same way up and I decided that I had inadvertently stepped into a parallel universe. My receptionist picked up the phone in front of her and jabbed at the buttons as if practising some karate finger exercises. She spoke while gazing straight at me.

  “Tom? I’ve got a customer here who wants items from the vault.”

  She drummed her fingers as she listened to the reply.

  “I’ve told him that, but he’s quoted the banking charter at me.”

  Her tone of voice indicated that I was a troublesome know-it-all. She put the phone back down as if she was trying to test the solidity of the desk top.

  “Mr Bradshaw will b along to see you in a moment.”

  While I waited I was treated to one of their customers trying to get a cheque book (“don’t you realise that it costs us money to clear cheques nowadays”) and some enquiring as to just why it took SCABS twelve days to clear a cheque from one of the big four banks. Tom Bradshaw appeared just as the receptionist was getting into her stride about the complexities of the British banking System. Tom hadn’t changed much since I last saw him when he worked alongside me as the Chief Cashier, except he was now wearing a dark blue pin striped suit and looked as if he was trying to forget that the pin-stripes were vomit yellow. He always reminded me of Robin Hood, partially because he looked like the 1950s film star who portrayed him and partly because of his carefree ambling gait. The receptionist pointed to me, Tom looked and three seconds later recognition dawned. He strode over,