UNCLE GEORGE [Part 9 of 10]

 UNCLE GEORGE  [Part 9 of 10]

By Richard Banks

We arrive back to find John vacuuming his car. He’s the first to receive the good news. “We’re celebrating at the Wheatsheaf I tell him. He’s invited and everyone he knows, the more the merrier, I say. I phone Fred Cummings who, I discover, is now Editor of the Norfolk Chronicle. I have a story for him, I say. It’s not the one he was hoping for but nevertheless it relates to my uncle so maybe of interest. Cummings declares that it’s the best good news story he’s heard in years and that every paper in Norfolk will be running it as well as the London dailies. He wants a photograph of the lucky couple, so I invite him and a photographer along to the pub. But before then he wants an interview. Better to do it now, he says, rather than when you’re half cut and not knowing what day of the week it is. I agree and with the unfaltering clarity you would expect from someone relating a recent, life changing event I tell him how we found the letter in the loft. We were really lucky, I say, it was in a cardboard box under a pile of magazines and I was taking it down to the bin when the bottom of the box gave way and everything in it spilled out down the stairs. You can imagine our surprise when we found it. My uncle never spoke of winning any money and, of course, our first thoughts were what had he done with it all. He had always lived a very frugal life. Clearly he hadn’t spent it on himself or the house he lived in. We would never have discovered the truth but for the business card to which it was stapled. Mr Alexander Carew of the Swaffham Gallery it said, so earlier today we took ourselves down there and Mr Carew gave us the wonderful news that my uncle’s money had been invested in a work of art which is now worth considerably more than the amount paid for it.”

         “And you’re quite sure it belongs to you and not the gallery?”

         “Oh yes. My uncle was the sole owner and there are legal papers confirming this. He wanted the picture to be on display in Norfolk where the artist lived and worked which is why he made it available to the gallery on loan.”

         “That’s very generous of him, but why didn’t he tell you what he had done?”

         “My uncle was a very private person and towards the end of his life increasingly eccentric. The publicity of being identified as the gallery’s benefactor was something he would have found very difficult to deal with. It was a secret he was content to share only with Mr Carew, knowing that he would contact me on my uncle’s demise.”

         “But you contacted him?”

         “Yes, Mr Carew was unaware of my uncle’s decease until we informed him of it. They met every other month in Swaffham and it was their firm understanding that if Uncle failed to turn-up at one of these that Mr Carew would drive over to his house to check if he was OK. As they last met only a month ago he assumed my uncle was alive and well; he was, of course, very upset to find otherwise. Is there anything else you would like to know?”

         Mr Cummings thinks that will do for now. He will see me later at the Wheatsheaf.

         Call over, we shoot off to the solicitors’ office where Mr Wells reluctantly agrees to see us. After a few minutes he’s very glad he did; we have become clients of note, our value to his practice much increased. “And you say that the owner of the Gallery has confirmed your uncle’s title to the picture, and that there are legal papers confirming this and the loan arrangement with the gallery.”

         “Yes, that’s what Mr Carew told us, so it must be so,” I say, suddenly not so sure of myself, but determined not to show it.

         Mr Wells beams at me with a benevolence not evident at our previous meeting. The papers, he assures us, if correctly filed, can easily be found. He had a similar case five years ago which was resolved with a minimum of fuss. He will contact us again as soon as the relevant papers are in his possession.

         Meeting over he escorts us to the front door and waves us off with a cheery goodbye. It’s nearly five pm and with only three hours to go until the big celebration we decide to fortify ourselves against the alcohol to come by dining out at Cromer’s swankiest restaurant. We’re almost finished and ready to pay when who should come in but Callow.

         “Hi,” I say, and for a moment he looks at me as though he doesn’t know me, then he does. I introduce him to Ally. “This is the man who came to my aid when I was attacked.”

         Ally looks suitably impressed while Callow insists that he did nothing worth the mention. “Just a silly misunderstanding,” he says. “Glad to have been of assistance.”

         Not at all,” I say, “We’re having a celebration this evening at the Wheatsheaf in Craventhorpe. If you’re free, you’ll be more than welcome.”

         Callow thanks me politely for the invitation and asks what we are celebrating and we spend the next few minutes telling him about Uncle’s lottery win and his purchase of an expensive painting which is now ours. This, I think, is working out well. Whether he comes or not he’s bound to mention this to the Beales. If he believes us he will likely convince them, and any thoughts they might have going back to the missing brandy will be ended before they begin.

         Callow congratulates us on our good fortune. Is there a flicker of doubt in his face? Does he believe me? I think he does. His presence at our celebration may, however, indicate otherwise. If he suspects we have something to hide he will come to observe and listen, to catch us out if he can, but when he opts to send us a bottle of champagne rather than attend it seems he has taken us at face value.

         Cummings arrives with photographer in tow, and we pose for pictures brandishing a photocopy of ‘Uncle’s letter’. The pub is full of our new found friends who soon get very drunk at our expense while we stick to low alcohol lager. The celebration ends at 5am when the after-party at Petherdale comes to an end and our remaining guests stagger home apart for one who is carried outside and abandoned in a bus shelter. We, also, are in an abandoning mood and, ignoring the multitude of bottles and cans left by our guests retreat upstairs to bed where we discover more cans and a pair of pants that aren’t mine. We’re beyond caring and fall asleep utterly exhausted. 

(to be Continued)

Copyright Richard Banks