by Stan Mason
‘You can count on our discretion,’ confided Jacob.
‘Isn’t it exciting!’ shouted Dolly, almost jumping up and down on her seat.
‘You should also consider making Wills after you’re married, if you marry, but we’ll set all that aside for the moment.’
‘You mean leave all our money to a cat’s home instead of our children in the event that we both die,’ intruded Jacob.
‘Well it’s up to you. It’s your money... your choice.’ He looked at them tiredly. ‘One more thing. When you get married ... if you do... be prepared for an onslaught from your children. At all times, refer them, the police, doctors, psychiatrists, social workers, and local authority employees to me. Refer them always to me. Say nothing to anyone except my name and the name of my firm. You must never feel intimidated.’
‘What if they won’t leave us alone?’ muttered Dolly. ‘What if they won’t go to you but pester us continuously?’
‘Then we’ll have them charged with harassment. They’ll be issued with a writ whereby they won’t be allowed within a certain distance of your home and they’ll be prevented from talking to you under threat of imprisonment.’
‘Hurray!’ yelled Jacob joyously. ‘I like it! I like it!’
‘Tell me,’ cut in Dolly. ‘Why are you doing all this for us? I’m sure you don’t normally do it for clients.’
Trout drew in a deep breath. ‘I should have taken more care of my own parents. They’re gone now. I didn’t put them in a home but I could have done better. Maybe this is God’s way of giving me a chance to make up for that. In any case, I hate bullies... especially children bullying their parents to make certain they get their mess of pottage. I just hope you’re strong enough to resist them.’
‘Together,’ repeated Dolly. ‘We can do it together!’
‘Good,’ laughed the solicitor. ‘For two old uns you learn very quickly. So hang on to my shirt-tails because I think you’re going to enjoy this.’
‘Yes, I think we are,’ continued Dolly. ‘Thanks to you.’
‘By the way,’ asked Jacob seriously. ‘The psychiatrist asked me the name of the Prime Minister of Britain. Is it still Margaret Thatcher?’
Trout laughed again. ‘Don’t you worry your head about such things, Mr. Crompton. ‘Just enjoy the ride, because I know we’re going to win!’
When they left the solicitor’s office, they stood downstairs in the hallway.
‘Down on your knee,’ ordered Dolly, with a smile touching the corners of her lips.
‘What?’ asked her consort with a puzzled expression on his face.
‘Down on one knee!’ she repeated. ‘I want you to propose to me.’
Looking solemn, he managed to get down on two knees and asked her to be his wife. She accepted immediately and helped him rise slowly before kissing him on the lips.
Exactly one month later, the couple married at the local Register Office to become man and wife. Without delay, they returned to the solicitor’s office where the wedding feast had been arranged. Only the solicitor and his staff attended the celebrations. Dolly was sad she wasn’t able to invite her friends from Jeremiah Lodge but the secrecy of the operation was paramount. When it was over, Philip Trout took them to his office where he read to them their Wills which had been drawn up a few days’ earlier.
‘I’ve left everything I own to Dr. Barnado’s Home,’ declared Jacob. ‘They do a good job on young people there. Appreciative young people, I might add. Better than I did on my daughter.’
‘And I’ve left mine to my two nieces whom I adore. Unfortunately, my sons became very jealous of them and forced them away from me.’
‘Very well,’ explained the solicitor, after the Wills had been signed and witnessed. ‘Now that you’re married we shall be looking for justice from your children. We want full restitution on all counts. That means we want your homes back We want you to receive all your money back. And we’ll sue your sons, Dolly, for the five thousand pounds they took from you.’
‘But how can they get our homes back,’ bleated Jacob. ‘They’ve already been sold.’
‘It’s not your problem,’ returned Trout. ‘They sold them without your permission... without anyone’s permission. It’s their problem.’
‘I like it,’ declared Dolly with a smile on her face. ‘We can do it together. Together. We’re so grateful to you for the wonderful place you found for us to live, Mr. Trout. We can’t thank you enough.’
‘Just call it my wedding present... until we get your properties back.’
As soon as Trout wrote to Dolly’s sons and Jacob’s daughter to announce their parents were now Mr. & Mrs. J. Crompton, living at an undisclosed address, all hell broke loose. There was a volley of post from the solicitors of both sources. Not surprisingly, there was no jubilation or good wishes from the offspring... nor was there even a request to ask whether the newly-married couple were well. The solicitors representing the greedy children pointed out that their parents were declared unfit to handle their own finances. Trout responded by saying that they had settled into their home and were coping perfectly well. He also claimed he could prove that both Mr. & Mrs. Crompton were completely capable in all respects and were enjoying life as a married couple. He challenged the reports written by the psychiatrists... not least the one who briefly examined Jacob. The old man had refused to answer any of the questions on the grounds that his daughter was trying to establish he was mentally unfit to handle his finances. Trout pointed out that Crompton was more than aware of his daughter’s actions and his refusal to comply did not make him incompetent in any way. Naturally, letters flowed forwards and backwards with delicate acrimony and a great deal of intimidation. However, Trout was as good as his word. He intended to do everything he could to ensure that justice prevailed. If the newly-weds had given it a nudge, he was determined to offer it a gigantic push. The tide began to sway in his clients’ favour when he forced the psychiatrist who examined Jacob to admit that the old man refused to answer questions knowing that his daughter had arranged the examination. He admitted he had been told by the daughter that it was for purposes of the fitness of her father to manage his finances and for no other reason. As far as Trout was concerned, her actions were tantamount to fraud... taking control of her father’s finances when there was no reason for her to do so. Ultimately, the report was withdrawn by the psychiatrist and an out-of-Court settlement was made in favour of the Cromptons. After achieving the admission, Trout pursued the psychiatrist who had examined Dolly. The man admitted that the examination had been too early after an operation for a clot on the brain and revealed that the two sons had employed him to discover whether she was fit enough to manage her own finances. He suggested she should undergo another examination. Trout arranged it without delay and Dolly passed with flying colours. At that point, he called in his clients for a further discussion.
‘I want to talk to you about the next step to be taken,’ he told them, ‘because the situation is becoming very serious.’
‘You make it sound terrible,’ retorted Dolly with concern. ‘Have we lost everything after all?’
‘No, no, no,’ explained the solicitor. ‘We’ve arrived at a point where we have to be austere... or the other side will just keep the issue rolling until eventually you do pass on.’
‘When we die, you mean,’ cut in Jacob. ‘We’re not scared of death, you know. You can say it out loud.’
‘Yes. Well it’s now time to threaten your sons, and your daughter, with legal action. Fraud to be exact. With the evidence of the two psychiatrists who both claim your offspring employed them to write reports on your fitness to handle your finances, without any grounds for so doing, it will be taken by the Court that they were trying to perpetrate a fraud.’
‘I don’t want my sons to go to prison,’ returned Dolly sharply. ‘I couldn’t forgive
myself for that.’
‘Nor my daughter,’ concurred Jacob.
‘No one’s going to prison,’ continued Trout. ‘But if we don’t use that as a lever no one will concede. We have to frighten them out of their wits.’
‘Like they did to us,’ commented Jacob bad-temperedly.
‘All your money has been returned from the other solicitors and I’ve put it into an account I’ve opened up for you in joint names with a major bank. The details are in this envelope. All you need to do is to go to the bank and sign a mandate.’ He handed the document to Dolly. ‘With the threat of imprisonment, and the threat of legal fees which will swamp them, your children will be forced to repay the value of all the furniture, appliances and bric-a-brac they disposed of. You’re entitled to the value of those goods because they were wantonly dispersed in all quarters for no good reason at all. And then there are damages you require for all the pain and suffering they caused you. They’ll have to fork out a pretty penny.’
Dolly looked at Jacob apprehensively. ‘I think that’s fair and just, don’t you, Jacob?’
He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. But what about our houses?’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed the solicitor, ‘that’s the coup d’etat!’
‘What have you done?’ asked Dolly, full of admiration for the man.
‘You may recall Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, which is most fitting in every aspect of this case. He wrote “a plague upon both your houses!” Well, the money obtained from the sale of your properties has been returned but it is far below the current market value... by many thousands of pounds. Also, the properties shouldn’t have been sold so there are also the estate agents and solicitors fees which amount to a pretty penny. Therefore, I’ve put a legal charge on the properties of your sons and your daughter for the balance they owe you. That means they can’t sell their own houses until they’ve repaid you the money they owe. And I’ve demanded interest on that debt at ten per cent per annum which they will have to pay you on a monthly basis. It’ll certainly teach them a lesson they’ll remember for a long time. Are you happy about that?’
The couple stared at each other and laughed. ‘What can I say?’ returned Jacob. ‘I hope you’re not too hard on them all in the end. I mean, if it wasn’t for their greediness and evil Dolly and I would have never married.’ He stared at her lovingly. ‘I really love her,’ he declared sincerely. ‘She means all the world to me now.’
‘And me too,’ added Dolly. ‘But one thing pleases me.’
‘What’s that?’ asked the solicitor.
‘Thank Heavens we’re too old to have any more children!’
‘You can say that again,’ concurred Jacob. ‘We’ve had enough of them. From now on we just do everything together!
The sound of laughter echoed throughout the solicitor’s office as the three of them laughed... together!
Head-Hunted
Claude Attwood was a genetic scientist owned a financially-ailing wax museum a short distance from the Blackpool Tower. It had been left to him in the Will of an old uncle who had passed away. Realising its potential value in terms of income and capital if it were to prosper, he devoted considerable time to re-establishing its popularity. His objective was perfectly sound for, within a year, having adapted a number of changes and by employing the correct marketing campaign, the museum began to establish a reasonable turnover. But Attwood wasn’t really interested in waxwork museums or seaside entertainment ... he was a genetic scientist eager to advance the cause of science in his own particular field. The legacy from his late uncle offered him an alternative and useful method of progression in terms of activity, giving him the opportunity to follow his main cause. For this reason he visited the home of a woman named Doris Kinnear one evening without prior warning. She was a widow who lived in Blackpool but he neither knew her nor had they ever met before. She answered the door stiff-backed, aloof... a short, slightly-plump, blonde-haired woman in her late forties with an extremely pleasant face. She stared at the doctor coldly, believing that he was an insurance salesman or someone intent on selling her double-glazed windows. Attwood was a very short man, almost a dwarf, with a beard which covered the whole of the lower part of his face, and he wore a pair of pince-nez spectacles resting way down his nose. It was his penchant always to go out wearing a bowler hat and a very long overcoat. Some people who knew him nick-named him Toulouse Lautrec because he looked so very much like the French painter, although they never dared mention it to his face.
‘Mrs. Kinnear,’ he began, in a deep resounding voice, with an air of arrogance and determination. ‘My name’s Claude Attwood. I’m so delighted to meet you.’
‘Really,’ she commented tersely. ‘I’m in the middle of my dinner. It’s not convenient. What do you want?’
‘I apologise for the inconvenience,’ he told her without showing any feeling of sincerity. ‘I think we can do each other a great deal of good. I’ve come to offer you employment. I won’t keep you long. May I come in and discuss it with you?’
Before she could answer, he skipped past her and sauntered into the lounge. Clearly, Attwood was not a man to waste time on pleasantries or etiquette. More astonished than shocked, she watched him walk boldly into her front room where he opened his briefcase and pulled out some papers. She closed the front door with an angry expression on her face and followed him inside.
The scientist sat on the settee, having spread out his papers on one side. He was a man who cut to the chase immediately, adopting an attitude which was totally business-orientated without any emotion or consideration whatsoever. ‘As far as I can see you’re forty-eight years old... a widow living on the proceeds of your late husband’s life assurance policy plus a meagre widow’s pension. Is that right?’
‘If it is, it’s no business of yours!’ she riposted angrily. ‘What right have you to force yourself into my home to tell me that?’
He ignored her tirade. ‘Almost certainly you’re probably quite short of money. You’re getting bored and you’re thinking of looking for work... to earn money to live on.’
‘How could you possibly know that?’ she asked in amazement.
‘I have a newspaper cutting about the death of your husband six months ago,’ he replied curtly. ‘They published a photograph of you both. The rest was elementary guesswork. Well you need have no worries. We have just the job for you.’
She stared at him speechless for a few moments. ‘I don’t know what your game is but you’ve got hold of the wrong end of the stick.’
‘I don’t think so, Mrs. Kinnear. I don’t think so. Are you telling me you’re not interested in being employed? Not interested in earning money. I can tell you we pay top wages. Top wages.’
She stared at him dolefully and then slumped into one of the armchairs in the lounge. ‘Well, I have to admit I’ve been scanning the “Jobs Vacant” columns lately. But, I don’t understand why you’ve come here. If you need staff, why don’t you advertise for them like everyone else?’
The scientist gave her a brief smile. ‘If we advertised for staff, dozens of people would apply... most of them totally unsuitable. There would be lots of interviews, many telephone calls, a great deal of time-wasting, a mass of paperwork, and so on. No, Mrs. Kinnear... our method of selection is singular, simple and successful. We’ve considered you at length and we’d like to offer you the job. What do you say?’
‘Well hold on a minute!’ she told him, almost breathless. ‘Which company are you? What sort of job is it?’
The scientist inhaled deeply and released his breath slowly. ‘We operate the Attwood Museum Gallery in Blackpool near to the Tower. You must have passed it thousands of times. We need a night-watchperson to look after the place at night and I’m positive you’d fill the role adequately.’
She considered the idea briefly and then turned him down. ‘Oh no. Not nights. I do
n’t want a night job. Sorry. I’m looking for something simple during the day.’
‘That’s just the point,’ he pressed. ‘If you take this job you’ll have all your days free. I’m offering very good money... and it’s an easy job. There’s very little to do. In fact, you’ll be your own boss. There’s no one around at night to give you orders.’
‘But why am I the one you’ve chosen? Why come to me?’
He squared his shoulders and looked at her over the pince-nez. ‘I told you. We have our own selection process for the right person. We want to recruit you. I assure you, you’d fit in admirably.’
Mrs. Kinnear’s face took on a painful expression. ‘I don’t know,’ she told him uncertainly. ‘I’ll have to think it over. And I’d have to see the place first. I’ve never been inside a wax museum before. It’s not my cup of tea, if you know what I mean.’
‘Why don’t you come along and look around tomorrow,’ suggested Attwood amiably. ‘Come over any time you like! We can talk about it over a cup of coffee.’
After he had gone, Mrs. Kinnear sat thinking about her visitor. Why her? Why had he kept a newspaper cutting six months’ old about the death of her husband? He knew nothing about her really, so what was in his mind? Was he genuine or did he have an ulterior motive? If she had any sense, she would treat the man with caution. In reality, she ought to ignore the offer... turn it down flat! If she intended to find employment, it should be done at her own will... not stemming from a selection process unknown to her by a short strange man who looked like the French artist, Toulouse Lautrec. As a result of all the questions flooding through her mind, she spent a sleepless night but chided herself the next day for being so suspicious. Here was a golden opportunity to be employed by an institution which had been operating in Blackpool for over seventy years. At the same time she could earn the money she needed. Without doubt, the interest on the money from her husband’s insurance policy and her widow’s pension were hardly enough to live on!