UNCLE GEORGE    [Part 4 of 10?]

By Richard Banks 

On the Monday, after breakfast, I set-off with my uncle’s will, his death certificate and proof of who I was. The cashier at the Upshire Bank declared herself unable to deal with my enquiry and after disappearing ‘off-stage’ to consult a colleague showed me into the office of a Mr Woodrow whose weary expression indicated that my arrival had not, from his point of view, been well timed. He examined the documents I brought before declaring that any money belonging to my uncle could only be disclosed to his solicitor.

         “But surely,” I said, “you can tell me if the account is open or not. It seems a pity to waste your time and the solicitor’s if it’s been closed.”

         He nodded in a begrudging sort of way and, taking from me the bank’s letter, typed out the account number and examined the client details on his monitor. “I’m afraid you’re out of luck Mr Jones, the account was closed twenty one years ago, a pity that.”

         “Oh, why so?” I asked. “Much in it?”

         Mr Woodgrove raised a disapproving eyebrow. “That I couldn’t possibly say, Mr Jones but if I was to tell you that £30,000 was a significant amount back then you should not construe me as meaning that such a sum was in your uncle’s account when he withdrew it all in cash. Now, Mr Jones, if you will excuse me I have work to do.”

         So, uncle had walked out of the Upshire with a bag or suitcase full of banknotes. How had he got his hands on such a large sum and what had become of it? If this wasn’t a mystery nothing was, but my growing optimism that the Echo would be able to provide me with further information was all but quashed within minutes of entering their premises. The young guy on reception did not know the person signing their letter or what the interview was about, assuming it ever took place. No doubt, he said, it was something to do with a story they running at the time but what that was he had no idea. They only kept their back numbers for ten years. I could speak to the Editor when he was back in the office but as he had only been with the paper five years it was unlikely he would know any more than himself. Perhaps, he suggested, the best course of action would be for me to leave my mobile number, along with a note saying what I had just told him, and if Mr Thorpe could be of assistance he would, no doubt, give me a ring.

         I did as he suggested but with little expectation that a call-back, if it happened, was going to add anything to what I had found out at the bank. Was the Echo’s request for an interview linked to the money in my uncle’s account? I felt sure it was, but if the paper was unable to tell me this, who else could? The Beale’s? My imagination was in overdrive. Stick to the facts I told myself, but of these there were far too few.

         I was having lunch in a pub nearby when the ringtone of my mobile heralded a call from Matlock & Wells informing me that a life assurance policy lodged with them when uncle made his will would be adding a further £300 to his estate. If I was less upbeat about this than the solicitor’s clerk appeared to be it did at least bring me down to earth. The purpose of my visit was to decide what to do with uncle’s house and its effects. With only a few days left before my return to London I was better of getting on with that rather than chasing a pot of gold that in all probability no longer existed. I had a big decision to make and a girl friend I was rather fond of. Did we have a future together and, if so, did it lie in London or here? The time to find out was very definitely now, and that evening I made the longest and most important telephone call of my life at the end of which I was engaged and living in what was likely to become our first house.

         Unsurprisingly sleep didn’t come easily that night. The feeling of euphoria when Ally said yes was soon followed by the realisation that there was now even more to do than before. In addition to binning uncle’s clothes and linen I had also to dispose of much of his furniture. Some of it would come in useful until we could afford better but most of the rest would be giving the tip a bad name. We would be needing a freezer, a washing machine, a TV, none of which uncle had. The house would need rewiring and central heating installed. I awoke, with an aching head, to the ring tone of my mobile. After lying awake for most of the night I had overslept, it was 10am.

         “Mr Phillip Jones?” the voice was unfamiliar, businesslike, a certain tension in his voice indicating that for him this was an important call.

         “Yes, that’s me.”

         “My name is Fred Cummings. I gather from Eddie Thorpe at the Echo that you’ve been asking about a letter I sent to George Jones in 1994. No doubt you’ll be wanting to know why I  wanted to speak to your uncle. I have much to tell you and in return you might be able to fill in a few gaps for me. I suggest we meet at the Wheatsheaf in Craventhorpe. Are you free this afternoon?”

         I replied that I was, my commitment to the practicalities of setting-up home suddenly put on hold in favour of a treasure hunt that was almost certainly going to end in disappointment. But who would know, I told myself, and if Cummings had nothing worth the telling that would be an end to it with only an afternoon wasted. Having eased my conscience by dropping-off more stuff at the tip I set-off for the Wheatsheaf trying to suppress my boyish excitement for a mystery about to be revealed, or so I hoped.  

(To be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks