by Sam Sparks
are looking for.’
More lies, I have zero interest in matters of the railway and my wife had divorced me five years before. I was “more interested in the business than her.”
She was not wrong.
Wayne ceded and up I went. I took myself back, straight to where I remember Dad doing his bit of brick removal. Such a long time ago, sure enough there was one missing brick filled only with cement. I wanted to dig out the mortar, but that would be noisy and how long can one “view” a loft?
I have one of those key chains that has a penknife attached. I would have to be quiet with matey down below and, more importantly, damn quick! I started a protracted coughing fit to cover the noise as I scratched away at the mortar, well, stabbed furiously would be more accurate.
‘You alright up there, Sir?’
More faux coughing and equally pathetic excuse about my chest complaint. ‘Hang on I just need to have a couple of puffs of my inhaler.’
How was I coming up with this stuff?
My next request was going to really annoy him.
‘You don’t have a tape measure in your car do you?’ I called down from above.
A disgruntled and drawn out ‘Yes, hang on I’ll go and get it’ filtered its way up. Perfect, that would give me at least another two minutes. Which as it turned out I didn’t need as by the time he was back, telling me he’d throw it up as he didn’t like ladders. I’d uncovered a dark blue drawstring purse, with a noticeable weight to it.
As the tape measure landed it was followed by:
‘I’m going to have to ask you to hurry up Sir; I’ve another viewing across town in fifteen minutes. And I did squeeze you in at short notice.’
I fiddled about for an appropriate time, made moving around noises and climbed down the ladder. I issued a profuse amount of thanks and shot out the door. Back in the car I opened the purse. The first thing I saw was a note written in my Grandad’s spidery hand. I recognised it instantly. It read:
“In the event of my death, contact our Solicitors Messrs. Forsyth. They have instructions for the disposal of the accompanying package.
I imagined his solicitor was long gone. I opened the drawstring purse. What I found, in various shapes and sizes, were diamonds. Thirty-seven of them.
I couldn’t believe it as I tipped them out into the ashtray container. Mixed emotions ran riot. One minute ago I was facing a bleak financial future and now I was in possession of diamonds that nobody could possibly know I had. A temptation? You bet!
The Devil was on one shoulder egging me on to keep schtum. On the other, the Force for Good was nudging me to do the exact opposite. Maybe there was a compromise of some description to be had.
My parents’ fatal car crash and Grandad’s death happened within weeks of each other. He’d contracted cancer six months before. It was a cruel end, made harder still for him, knowing that his son and daughter in law had pre-deceased him. Even worse, his grandson was an orphan and likely left his wife the responsibility of looking after me. He was presumably too weak to do anything about his hidden secret. Excruciating.
That was why this package hadn’t come to light before. Grandma couldn’t have known, otherwise why the secrecy of hiding them in the first place?
I headed for where I thought the Solicitors’ office might be. The sign read Forsyth and Forsyth. OK, so still the same name, just twice. For a modern day legal firm, it was remarkably old fashioned.
I asked for help at the reception. The woman took my name and jotted down the nature of my enquiry. I showed her the letter, told her who I was and my relationship to the writer. She wrote it all down and I took a seat. After a few minutes a bumbling kind of chap appeared looking over his half rims and carrying a battered box. He beckoned me in to a side room.
‘I’m Alastair Corke.’
Before we went any further he required ID. Course he did. That took a while, but we got there.
‘You took your time getting here. This instruction has been in our dormant file for an eternity.’
I shrugged. I was about to point out it was a miracle that I was here at all. Then it occurred to me, had I committed a theft? He read some notes for a minute or so, his eyebrows raised and brow knotted. Something was adrift.
‘Actually, in all honesty, we might have slipped up here, but you’re here now. Hang on a minute please.’
He got up and went outside. Five minutes later he returned with an old gentlemen. Who looked me up and down:
‘No question.’
Then disappeared back through the door.
I guessed I’d passed some kind of casual visual ID. Presumably from someone, whom I took to be the very senior partner; perhaps a Forsyth who must have known Dad or even Grandad. It was a shame, I would have liked to have talked, but he was clearly not up for a chat.
Mr. Corke, now satisfied of what he might call the veracity of the situation, opened the box and produced an envelope. He read from a separate sheet.
‘I am instructed to give you this letter and make sure you read it, how odd. Oh and that’s it apparently, good.’
My jaw must have been on the floor by the end. The letter was long. A full five minutes worth.
The potted version was that towards the end of the war, Grandad had been liberating a suburb of Amsterdam. During a house-to-house search of a flat above a jeweler’s, he came across the diamonds and pocketed them. This was the least of the revelations!
His unit was billeted in the town. So pleased was one, resident to be rid of the Nazis she showed her gratitude in the most generous of ways. Her name was Gretl Oudes. His unit had then pressed on to Berlin. On the way back some months later Grandad called in to see her, no doubt hoping for a repeat performance. He found her not alone. She was with child. Grandad’s actual words in the missive were typical of the time:
‘I’d gone and got her up the duff.’
Now, given he was engaged to Grandma at the time, this was obviously a significant cause for concern.
Grandad had moved on sharpish, literally high tailed it out of town. He was ashamed of himself on four counts, the diamond acquisition, adultery, leaving the girl pregnant and being an absent father. He couldn’t bring himself to benefit from the diamonds and he felt the only way to recompense, was by a bequest after his death. Of course, the timing of my Dad’s death and his, scuppered his plans.
I wondered if he’d ever told Dad the whole story.
Although they were close, this kind of revelation might have soured things. The letter finished with information regarding the potential whereabouts of the girl and some family information.
Outside, I awarded myself a coffee and ruminated on my extraordinary afternoon. With my mind in a state of flux, I found it impossible to come up with a solution. Crazy inappropriate courses of actions flew in and out my mind.
I tried to reason that the diamonds weren’t my property. Well, they weren’t really anyone’s. Was there a legal case for the previous owner having a call on ownership? But nobody knew they were there and anyway, they belonged (albeit illegally) to my late Grandfather.
So my Dad hid them for him because presumably he couldn’t hide them in his own house. He just needed a safe place.
Then the moral question, I had possession and due to my recent financial comeuppance, any monies I receive would have to be reported to the authorities. Well, not a wax cat’s chance in hell of that happening.
It was quite a dilemma. One false move could result in all sorts of scenarios, perhaps even prison.
The immediate question was what to do now? I needed help of a particular kind that defied reasonable explanation. I drove homewards, passing one of the golf cubs I used to frequent. This sparked a memory of a county team colleague, Nigel Smiley, who used to be a member there. I remembered he had started work as a diamond polisher. His Uncle worked in Hatton Garden and got him a job. I wasn’t a huge pal of his, but we got on well enough. If memory served, we won the county area trophy for the first time on the last gr
een at his home club; the one I had just passed. Was he still there I wondered. It had been a good quarter of a century ago. It was worth a try.
I pulled over and rang the Pro shop. Bingo! Nigel played every Saturday in the same four ball. This was Friday. I aborted the journey home and found a B and B.
He saw me before I saw him.
‘James Lister’ rang in my ears.
‘I don’t bloody believe it!’
‘Nigel, how are you?’
‘Never better old chap. What a coincidence, you playing here today?’
When I said I’d come to see him, he was taken aback.
‘Why me?’
‘You still in the diamond trade?’
‘Indeed I am old boy.’
I remember now he was always a bit affected with his ‘old chaps’ and ‘old boys.’ A little eccentric. He still wore his trademark beret I noticed, which had always attracted comment amongst his peers. He took the continual ribbing in good part though. ‘Well, I need some help. It’s a bit involved.’
‘Sure, hang on. I need to tell my group I’ll catch them on the back nine. Make yourself at home in the clubhouse, I won’t be a jiffy.’
'I don't want to intrude and make you miss your game. I'll come back later?'
He wouldn't hear of it and insisted on buying breakfast.
'So what have you been up to since we last saw each other?' must be twenty five years ago James?’
‘I went into printing. Got married, didn’t work out ultimately. Golf took a bit of a back seat, miss the old days, the county matches etcetera.’
‘Business must be