A VISIT AT CHRISTMAS

 A VISIT AT CHRISTMAS

BY BOB FRENCH 

The judge at Edmonton Crown Court cleared his throat, thanked the jury, for their service, then glanced up at the young man standing in the dock.

“You have been found guilty of grievous bodily harm against Miss Victoria Smith.”  The judge stared down at his papers then adjusted his glasses.”

“Charles Alexander Fenwick, you have been convicted of the offence of manslaughter, by the verdict of a jury.  The court has heard that on the 31^st of December 2023, You and the victim, Miss Victoria Ann Smith, caught the 11:10pm train from Bristol Temple Mead to Exeter. According to several witnesses, you were both drunk and arguing.  At around 11:30pm, you were seen swearing and fighting in the carriage corridor of the train with Miss Smith, and that during this fight, you opened the carriage door and pushed Miss Smith out onto the track whilst the train was moving.”

“I have considered the aggravating factors in this case, including the fact that you were both drunk and fighting in a public place, I have also considered the mitigating circumstances, and the evidence of Doctor Yellington regarding the medical state of Miss Smith.”

He turned to the Doctor. “Doctor, as of nine o’clock this morning was Miss Smith still in a comma?”

The Doctor stood. “That is correct Your Honour.”

“And is there any indication as to when she will recover?”

“I am afraid that only nature can tell us Sir.”

The judge turned his attention back to Alexander. “Your lack of remorse about the health of Miss Smith’s condition is plain to see.  I therefore sentence you to a term of twelve years imprisonment. You will serve half of this sentence in custody before being eligible for release on license." 

That night in the Duck and Pheasant, Alexander’s second home, everyone felt sorry for their star rugby player.  Some gave their penny worth about a fair trial, others thought Victoria should have been in the dock and some thought that Alexander should have been given a much longer sentence, whilst the majority of his friends thought that Victoria had it coming to her.

 Victoria Ann Smith had arrived in the small town hoping to get a job at the Bristol Royal Infirmary.  She had qualified as a nurse in Liverpool, but decided she wanted to live and work down south.  It didn’t take her long to find, then mix in with the ‘in crowd’ which centered around the local rugby team.

On a cold, wet and windy Saturday afternoon in November, some of Victoria’s friends decided to go and support the local rugby team on the understanding that the third half was always a great hoot, with good food and drink. Victoria had never been to watch a game of rugby and was surprised how rough it was. Half-way through the second half, three players collided with each other and spun across the muddy touch line, knocking three of Victoria’s friends over.  All six ended up in a deep muddy puddle. 

Without thinking, Victoria donned her nurse’s hat and jumped into the pile of groaning bodies, quickly administering medical advice to those who followed her.

Two of the players were classed as walking wounded, but one player, a tall six-foot blond-haired man had to be stretchered off the pitch.  Victoria stayed with him until he reached the dressing room.  The coach, an elderly man who by the state of his nose, was an ex-rugby player, thanked her and asked if she could stay and help administer first aid?

“Sure.  Let me examine him properly first.” 

The coach, whose name was Bert, dug out a rusty old tin with a white circle and red cross on it.  “This is all we have.”

Victoria grinned and thought ‘when had the health and safety rules changed the marking on first aid boxes to white with a green cross.’

“Alright Bert, help me get this muddy jersey off him, but be careful, it looks as if he has a dislocated shoulder. After a great deal of gentle pulling and pushing, Bert swore.

“Sorry love.  We are going to have to cut him out of it.”

“No! it’s my favorite shirt.” The player shouted.

“What’s you name?” Victoria looked him sternly in the face.

“Alexander.  Do you really have to destroy my jersey?”

“No, not really.  I can leave you in your stinking, muddy shirt and wait until infection sets in.  Then I doubt you will ever play rugby again.  Your choice?”

Alexander reluctantly gave in and lay back down on the physio bed.

“Now just relax.  I will count to three then you will feel a sharp pain as I put your shoulder back in its right place, OK?”

“One, Two,” then she pulled his shoulder back into its original place.

What followed was a string of foul language, including some words that Victoria had never heard before.

“Right, lets look at the rest of your injuries. Bert, can you sponge his legs down so I can get a good look please.”

“umm! This looks bad. I think you are going to need stitches.  Do you have the kit to do this Bert?”

“Yes. Not sure if it’s clean and sterile though.”

“Have you any antiseptic?”

“Yeh, got that in a bottle over there. I’ll get it.  Do you need some cotton wool?”

Victoria thanked him and continued to study his legs.

Once Bert had finished cleaning the mud from his legs, Victoria completed her inspection.  She noticed that Alexander had so many scars from playing rugby; it was little wonder that there was any space left for more scars.

After the game had finished, the bar, club hall and dressing room started to fill up.  Bert suggested that he’d bring Alexander out once he’d got him sorted.

From that moment on, for over a year, Victoria and Alexander became an item.  They were never seen apart. Then in the summer, he invited her to move into his flat and for a few months’ life was bliss. They even decided to pool their resources and open a joint account.

Alexander gradually became aware of her variable behaviour and was a little surprised.  She was not slow in coming forward so that she got her way. Alexander was what one may call a gentle giant, a bit of a push over and he thought it was just first or second date nerves.

At Christmas, he wanted to take her up to London, take in a show and then have a nice meal at one of the posh restaurants. But she had other ideas. She wanted to go dancing down at Chinnerys in Southend.

A few months later they were contemplating a spring holiday. Alexander suggested Cyprus, but Victoria vetoed that idea and they spend two weeks in Val d’lsere, costing a fortune. On the last day of their holiday Alexander decided to have it out with her.  What was suppose to be a discussion between two people who were in love, it quickly turned into a real fight. To defend himself, Alexander had to pin her down until she relaxed, leaving bruise marks on her wrists and upper arms.

Alexander knew many of Victoria’s friends and one evening met up with them in a local pub.

“Thanks for meeting up with me and please forgive me if I cross over any boundaries of friends trust.  Since we got married, Victoria’s behaviour has deteriorated to the extent that on our last holiday we ended up actually fighting each other, and it wasn’t nice. One friend suggested that she might be on some sort of drug, but the other friends shouted her down.

A week later Alexander suggested that they follow the rugby team down to Bath staying at a really nice hotel.  To his surprise she agreed and the train into London was without problem.  Then on the Great Western Railways train she found a bar on board and started to have a drink, then another until she was tipsy. Then they started fighting.  He chased her down the corridor.  Then they started to struggle and without reason, they crashed against the door which suddenly flung open.  He tried to grab her but the suction caused by the rushing air past the open door sucked her out. That evening the Bristol police arrested him in the hotel and took him back to London.

It was the late afternoon on the 24^th of December and Alexander was about to start his eight years in prison.  Alexander kept himself to himself, but the word got out that he had beaten his wife into a coma and she had died.  As he watched the rugby game one of the Prison Staff touched him on the shoulder and quietly said that he had a visitor.

“Who is it? No one ever visits me.  Are you sure?”

“Just get a move on. I want to watch the game as well.”

Alexander went to the visitor’s room, sat down in the cubical and waited.

Then the door opened and a woman entered the other side of the glass.

When she took off her scarf and glasses, Alexander stood up and stared at the woman.

“God! I thought you were dead.”

Victoria grinned. “No.  I just popped in to wish you a happy Christmas before we, that’s Manuell and I are off on a holiday in the sun.”

“But have you told my solicitor that you have come out of your coma and that I want to challenge my sentence. I still have money you know.”

Victoria gave a quiet laugh.  “Alexander sorry but you have no money any more.  Remember we had a joint account and I took great delight in spending it all.  As far as your solicitor knows, I died last year.  I have a new identity now and my boyfriend is taking me to Spain on his yacht, then onto the Caribbean.  Goodby Alexander have a happy Christmas.

Copyright Bob French  ~  Dec2024

NO TIME TO RUN

 

NO TIME TO RUN - (out of time)

By Bob French

It was a crisp February morning, the mist still hung over the meadows and fields that led into the High Street of Little Easton, in Essex. The air smelt of pine and damp grass.  Roddy Crocket, ‘Davey’ to his friends, ignored the early morning dog walkers and paper-boys as he strode purposely down the High Street towards the little cottage next to the bus stop, adjusting his large military ruck-sack as he went.

He knew not many people would recognise him.  When he left five years ago, he was a pimply, five-foot three-inch boy who was always being picked on in school.  Now he stood six foot two, sported a tan that some would die for and was well built.  He felt sadness creep throughout his body, knowing that his mother’s neighbour had written to him, to tell him that his mum was very poorly. Once his platoon sergeant heard about it, he was on the first flight out of Afghanistan.

When he reached the bus stop, he glanced down at the little cottage set back from the high street and was angry with himself. The peeling paint, sagging porch, and the rose bushes and shrubs that his mother cared for since his dad had passed, looked wasted and desolate.

He rang the door-bell, then realized that it didn’t work, so he banged on the door a couple of times.  Within minutes he heard the “ow-ee” from Mrs. Jones, her next-door neighbour.

“Can I help you young man?”

“Mrs. Jones. It’s me Roddy.  I have come home to see what’s the matter with Ma; I can’t thank you enough for your letter.”

“Come around the back.  The front door is a little warped.”

Roddy followed her around the side of the cottage and his eyes picked up more neglect; windows cracked and drain-pipes leaking, then he caught site of the once beautiful garden.  It now resembled some of the sites he’d passed through on patrol in the Helman Province.

Mrs. Jones pushed open the kitchen door and moved quickly into the front room.  The stench of body odour and dampness stung the back of his throat.  There sitting in his Dad’s old arm-chair was his mum.

“Angie.  I got someone who wants to see you.”

Roddy’s eyes filled with tears as he stared down at his mother. 

He had to really look into her face to find the woman who had brought him up, then cared for him when her soul mate and his dad had passed.

In a frail voice, Angie called out his name. “Roddy love, is that you.  What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come home to care for you Ma.  Help get you back on your feet, thanks to Mrs. Jones.” 

“Roddy love, I’ll let you get acquainted with your Ma.  If you want anything, I’m only next door.”  With that she quietly left.

True to military fashion he stood.  “Let’s get you a cup a tea, then we can talk.”

   It took him a few minutes to find a couple of clean tea-cups, then glanced around the kitchen and thought that the place needed a major renovation job.  Then his eyes fell on a bundle of unopened letters underneath her old green cardigan.

He scooped them up and put them on the top shelf of the kitchen cupboard, promising to read them once he had got his mum sorted.

Sitting down opposite her, Roddy gently asked what has been going on. Has she been poorly?

“Roddy Love, it’s the new land lord. He said that I had signed a new contract which gave him the right to take over the upkeep and maintenance of my home.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Did you sign the new lease?  Have you got a copy of this new contract?

He could see his mother struggling with question.”

“Don’t bother just yet Ma, Let’s get you sorted out.  Do you mind if I have a wander around the place and see what needs sorting first?”

She smiled with her eyes and nodded.  “Will you be staying long?”

“As long as it takes Ma. Don’t you worry.” 

It took him nearly two hours to have a good look at the damage that had been caused by neglect, then he came and sat down next to his Ma.

“Ma, it’s going to take me a little while to get this sorted, but I don’t want you to worry.  Who collects your pension?”

“Mavis, next door. Why”

Roddy had to think who Mavis was, but his thoughts were interrupted when she explained that Mavis was Mrs. Jones.

“And what standing orders do you have, like the gas and electricity?”

“Oh, its that nice man, Mr. Green down at the Natwest.  He sorts all that stuff for me.”

“What about the rent.  Do you pay for that through the bank?”

Her voice quietened and he could see fear in her eyes. “Ma, what’s the matter.  Don’t you like the man who comes and collects the rent?”

“No.  I don’t trust him.  Every few months he tells me that the rent has gone up.  I tell him that I won’t pay any more rent unless he comes and fixes the gutters and windows.”

Roddy was beginning to see where this was going and had to really control his anger.

“OK Ma, but don’t you worry.  I will take care of things.  But I want you and Mavis not to say they have seen me to anyone who knows you, including people you don’t know.  I can sort all this out if the people who are hurting you, don’t know I am here, is that OK?”

For the first time his mother smiled and he knew that she was on the mend.

“Right then, breakfast.”

Later that morning, Roddy climbed over the back fence onto the road.  He walked for about half an hour until he came to a car hire garage and hired a non-descript hatch back. Then he went through the local paper and jotted down various tradesmen who could repair and redecorate his mother’s cottage.  He explained that it was a cash in hand job.

That afternoon, having done a mega shop at Liddle’s in Colchester, he drove home and parked his hire car next to the cemetery, along-side several other cars.  Then spent a couple of hours helping his mother sort out the laundry, bedding and clearing out the kitchen. After dinner, he sat down and started to go through the pile of letters that his Ma had received.

By ten, it was time to crash.  He had assembled those letters demanding payment; those from the land-lord’s company and those who were responsible for the upkeep of the cottage. he settled down to go over the letters. 

Something nagged him.  It was a name; Duggan. Then it came to him, Harry Duggan was one of the gang leaders who had made his life at school unbearable. He grinned as he read that Duggan was part of the landlord organization who took the rent. Then, to his surprise, he read that Bert Duggan, the younger sibling of the Duggan empire, ran the maintenance company responsible for the up-keep of the eight small cottages on the edge of the village.

He asked Mrs. Jones if she would act on behalf of his mother when any tradesmen came to repair things around the cottage or the grounds. He gave her the names of the companies who would be doing the job. She understood why the need for secrecy.

He then recalled that Ann, a girl he had a crush on in the senior year of his school, had taken an apprenticeship with a legal firm in Colchester, so he chanced his luck and once he’d found the firm on the internet, called her.  After a brief chat, he made an appointment to see her.

 They met at the Wimpey Bar and to his surprise they hit it off.  Once he had explained what had brought him back from overseas, she was angry and promised if there was anything she could do, all he had to do was ask.

“Ann, Can I ask you a huge favour?”

“From what you have told me you don’t need a favour, you need to hire my firm to represent your mother in court.”

Roddy took his time explaining what he wanted her to do, which she quickly agreed to.

Her first call, after checking with the Inland Revenue to see if the Duggan’s had submitted their tax returns for this year.  Within an hour they had called her back and explained that the firm had avoided any returns for the past four years.  Before hanging up, she warned the officer that the Duggan’s would almost certainly try to destroy their accounts, and leave the UK for Spain. The legal wheels had started to grind. Then she wrote to Harry Duggan.

It was three o’clock on Friday afternoon when Harry read the letter from Ann.  It was a very formal and straight forward demand:

‘It is noticed that your company has failed to present your accounts for the past four financial years. You are there for required to have all your accounts and supporting receipts for the past four financial years ready for inspection by Wednesday next week.’

Harry’s face went white and quickly lunged for the telephone and dialed Frank, his accountant. The phone was answered by one of the clerks who explained that Frank was away for a week; funeral of his brother or something.’

Harry, knew that he had to destroy everything and then warn his brother to do the same before Monday morning, then head off to Spain.

It was reported in the local newspapers that the two Duggan brothers had been arrested on Friday evening trying to destroy evidence required by the Inland Revenue.  They were expected to receive a lengthy jail sentence each.  It was also reported that the three local tradesmen who had been shut out of the village had now formed a new company who would care for and look after the original eight cottages in the village.

Roddy pushed the door open to his mum’s front room and was greeted by a smiling face; the face he remembered before he left home all those years ago.

Copyright Bob French

 

 AND A BLOODY MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL.

By Bob French

Robert Henderson clenched his fists in anger as Geoffry Smitherton, the CEO of Hamilton and Buckfast, the firm where he had worked for the past 9 years, cleared his throat.

          “You leave me no choice Henderson.  You oversaw the security and delivery of the gold bullion, its route, and timings.  You even chose the security men to ensure that it reached the bank on time and intact.”

Robert knew it was a stitch-up.  Jess, an old navy friend who worked in the security business had tipped him off that some one was going to steal the year’s gold deposits.  He also knew that, according to Heidi, his girlfriend, and the assistant accountant of the firm, that when she checked the findings of the November audit, the books didn’t balance and there was a deficit of several million pounds.   He had to say something, but he knew that if he did, innocent people would lose their jobs, so he stood there and took it.

“Please report to the head porter, who will accompany you to your office where you will clear out your desk and hand over any security access cards you have.  I want you out of this building by mid-day, now get out of my sight!”   As he made his way out of the building, he thought it strange that if they were sure he was responsible for the crime, why weren’t the police being involved?

It was two weeks later that he had a call from Jenny, a close friend to say that Heidi had been involved in a hit and run and was in hospital.  He was beside her bed within the hour, and as he held her hand, he whispered that he loved her and that she must get better so they could get married.  He felt her hand gently squeeze his as she whispered something that brought tears to his eyes. As he clung onto her hand, he could feel her slowly slipping away. When the monitor stopped recording her heart beat, he looked up at the nurse and questioned her with his eyes. The nurse slowly shook her head, then quietly left the room to seek assistance. Robert gently kissed her and spoke quietly that he would avenge her death.

Robert retired to his cottage where he found solace in the silence of the snow-covered countryside.    Each day he would slowly trudge through the winter landscape as snow fell softly around him, blanketing the world in a muted hush. Each step crunched beneath his boots, a sound that felt alien in the vast silence around him.  He used to love walks like these with Heidi, her laughter dancing on the crisp air, her breath visible in frosty puffs. Now, each footfall felt like a reminder of her absence and it tore at the muscles of his heart.

It had been eight months since the day everything changed. When the future he expected with his Heidi had flickered and then dimmed.  He recalled the way Heidi held his hand in those last dying minutes of her life, her fingers entwined with his, whispering that she would always be with him,

“Just look for me in the small things,” she had said, her voice barely above a whisper.  And yet he found himself lost in a world that felt impossibly large without her.

The trees loomed tall and bare, their branches heavy with snow, creating a fragile canopy above him.  He paused for a moment, allowing the chilly air to fill his lungs, letting it clear the fog in his mind.  He remembered how they used to walk this very path, hand in hand, sharing dreams and secrets beneath the shelter of the pines.

Robert shook his head, trying to dispel the sorrow that clung to him like the falling snow. He continued, his breath coming in steady puffs as he moved deeper into the woods.  The world was a tapestry of white and gray, and he felt as if he were wandering through a dream, disconnected from reality.

As he rounded a bend, he spotted the small clearing where sunlight used to break-through the clouds of falling snow, illuminating a lone bench dusted with snow. It had been their favorite spot – a place to pause, to breathe, and to watch the world go by.  He approached the bench, his heart heavy with memories, as he sat down, allowing the cold to seep through his coat, feeling the weight of solitude settle in beside him.

A gust of wind stirred the snowflakes, swirling them like tiny dancers in the air.  In that moment, he thought he heard her voice, soft and melodic, beckoning him to remember the beauty around him. 

“Look for me in the small things,” it echoed.  He closed his eyes, letting the memory wash over him; a gentle warmth seeping through his body. Robert sat silently for a while, then opened his eyes at the sight of a small bird flitting from branch to branch, its vibrant plumage standing out against the winter backdrop.  He smiled as the little bird seem to look at him before vanishing into the depth of the forest.  May be Heidi was right.  In the stillness of the snow-clad forest, in the life that persisted, even in the cold, she was there-embedded in the beauty of the moment.

With a deep breath, Robert stood up, brushed the snow from his coat, and took one last look around the clearing, a quiet farewell mingling with the gentle falling of snow.  As he walked back along the path, he felt a little lighter, as if the memories, though bittersweet, could also be a balm.  The snow continued to fall, but now, it felt like a blanket of hope, wrapping around him, inviting him to carry on.

          After a week of contemplation, he called Jenny and asked if she would meet him for coffee, but not in town.  She agreed, understanding his reluctance to be seen together particularly as the theft of the gold was still fresh in some people’s minds. Robert played rugby for Brightlingsea and often used The Queen’s Head pub, secluded on the outskirts of Tolleshunt D'arcy, where he used to entertain Heidi.

 

          He also invited Jess and as they sat down with a drink, Robert spoke.

“Listen I know the robbery was a stitch-up, but what was the scam and who was involved?”

 

          Jess spoke first. “I’ve been doing a little bit of digging in prep for this meeting and I can tell you that the mob who did the job came from Nottingham; four of them.”

 

          Jenny quickly looked over her shoulder, checking that no one was listening, then spoke in a hushed voice. “Heidi told me that she worked it out, which is why they killed her, I think. The gold, which was insured, would be stolen and the firm would receive a huge payout, which would cover the loss and sort out the debt.”

 

“What debt?

 

“Heidi had discovered that Smitherton had racked up a huge gambling debt in two of the big casinos in London and each month he discreetly filtering off thousands to keep one step ahead of the mobs.  Then he personally authorised the investment for a project in South Africa which went sour.  He was well in over his head.”

 

Robert whistled to himself. “And no one spotted it?”

         

Jenny leant forward. “Yes, old man Hamilton picked it up during the autumn audit and spoke to Smitherton.  According to Nancy, his PA, he was given six months to sort it all out or he would report the matter to the police.”

 

“Who else knew about this?”

“Pritty well all the executive team, including that slimy git Frampton the Accountant and before you ask, he was the one who suggested the way to recoup the loss to the board.”

 

They all sat there in silence for a while, then Jess spoke. “I can take care of the four from Nottingham, but what have you in mind for the rest?”

 

Jenny said. “If we are now thinking of revenge and that you want to take down the whole Board of Directors, including Frampton and his hangers on, then I suggest you do it on the 23^rd of December.”

 

“What’s the significance of the 23^rd?”

 

“It’s the afternoon Hamilton and Buckfast hold their directors Christmas Party.  They normally hold it around 4:30 on the fourth floor. It's invitation only.”

 

Jess put down his pint. “We don’t want to take out those who are innocent, not before Christmas.”

 

“Good point.  I can get hold of the invite list and discretely warn off those not involved in the scam.”

 

“Thank you Jenny.  Now the question is how do we do it?”

Jess grinned. “Just so happens I still have some contacts with my old mates in the bomb disposal team, but I would need to recce the room first.”

 

          Robert sat by the burning fireplace drinking a nice 25-year-old whiskey when he heard on the six o’clock news that there had been an explosion at the firm of Hamilton and Buckfast.  According to the Fire Chief at the scene, there were no survivors.

 

          He grinned, raised his glass and toasted them, and a bloody merry Christmas to you all.”

 

Copyright Bob French Nov24

 

 JABA’S LAST WILL AND TESTIMONY

By Bob French

I glanced around the quiet room then stifled a yawn, It was warm and stuffy and covered in dust, just like Mr. Fotheringham, the solicitor, who had summonsed me to the reading of the last will and testament of James Alfred Bernard Yearsley, Jaba to his friends and my best mate for the past twenty years, but now, sadly no longer with us. 

Sitting to my left was Melony, his deceitful, twisted, and cruel wife, who did her best to make Jaba’s life hell. To my right sat two other women in their early twenties, who I took to be Jaba’s kids, well not kids any more.  They looked just like their mother. I swore that if ever there was a performance of Cinderella, these two brats would get the part of the ugly two sisters without a doubt, and Melony would have no problem playing the cruel step mother.

Fotheringham gave a polite cough, as though to demand obedience, just like our old maths teacher did when he suspected foul play at the back of the class where Jaba and I normally sat. 

One of the two brats looked up from her i-phone, starred at Fotheringham, then gave a huff and went back to her i-phone.

 We had been sitting here in this stuffy room for over an hour whilst his clerk, who had been summons to bring in the Yearsley file, frantically tried to find it. 

Suddenly there was a clatter of heavy footsteps outside the door.  Then the door burst open admitting a tall, pimply faced youth, flourishing the said document in front of him.  He paused and with a degree of ceremony, slowly placed the file down in front of his master. He paused, expecting some sort of thanks, then beat a hasty retreat, praying to himself that this was not to be his last day at Fotheringham, Wentworth and Belchley.

Fotheringham gave a cruel smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I shan’t keep you long.”  He took a deep breath, opened the file and looked down at the document, which had just been delivered.

Then, without warning, he quietly swore, stood up, excused himself, left the room, stormed off down the corridor and into the practice office.  We could hear old Fotheringham yelling at the top of his voice at the young man who had delivered the incorrect file. He gave the incompetent clerk five minutes to fine the correct document, or he would be out on his ear.”

 Whilst Fotheringham was tearing strips off the young office clerk, Melony decided that the office needed some fresh air and moved to the back of the room and opened one of the large windows. Within seconds, the office was full of rain and flying papers. As the rain and cold air blasted into the office, the two daughters started to scream abuse at their mother. One of the daughter’s had jumped up, sending her chair crashing backwards into a tall African Palm which Fotheringham’s youngest son had given to him when he had become a Partner and he had nurtured it every day for the past fifteen years.

Luckily, I was seated away from the direct blast of the wind and rain that was slowly trashing the office, so was able to view the Armageddon in relatively comfort.

The force of the impact caused the Palm to rock in its large pot, then slowly fall to its left.  Directly in line of where the Palm was expected to make land-fall, was a small very expensive looking mahogany side-table with two Royal Scot Christel decanters and a beautiful model of HMS Arc Royal, which the officers of the old aircraft carrier had presented to Fotheringham on his retirement from the Royal Navy.     

I watched as the tall African Palm, slowly and majestically fell, destroying the model of the Arc Royal, and shattering the beautiful decanters, and lastly, with the sound of an explosion, it turned the expensive side-table into match-wood.

By now the wind was slanting into the office causing more files and papers to take to the air, and condemn those files that fell to the floor to slowly become waterlogged. 

It was then that I heard Melony scream and I turned to see where she was.  I was met with a blast of foul language and as far as I could understand, she was a little concern about her hair, which to be honest looked a complete mess and thought that when this is over, I should tell her to use old Ma’ Mavis’s over on Connaught Street, rather than that posh hairdressers on the high street, where the snobs of our society went, just so they could be seen and envied by the lower classes of the town.

I’m not sure if it was that Fotheringham had found his file, or the screams and howling wind and rain coming from his office had caused him to return.  Either way when he forced open the door and stood there, the look on his face told me he was not very pleased.

“What in God’s name is going on.  Who is responsible for all this mess?”

Before Melony and her two brats could come to their senses, I slowly pointed an accusing finger towards Melony who was sitting in a puddle on the floor soaking wet trying to tidy up her £50 hair do.

Then he caught site of his retirement present, well, what was left of it, and the very expensive decanters and mahogany side-table. 

“My God, what have you done?  Who caused all this damage.

Again, I slowly raised my hand and pointed to one of the brats.

“My God!” he bellowed at the top of his voice.”

I could see that we were not going to achieve anything this morning whilst he continued to ask God what had happened, so I raised my hand like a school kid.

“Excuse me Mr. Fotheringham.  Could I suggest that if you don’t have Mr. Yearsley, file to hand, we hold the reading at another date and time and possibly another location?”

This seemed to quieten him down. I could see his mind turning over trying to process the damage to his office.

“I agree, but who is going to pay for all this damage?”

I said nothing, but slowly turned and looked at Melony.  Whose face was already starting to go red as she started to build herself up into one of her famous tantrums.

She staggered to her feet. “You don’t expect me to pay for all this do you?”

Fotheringham seemed to pause for a minute. “Who opened the window?”

I pointed to Melony again.

“And who knocked over my African Palm?”

I didn’t wait for the little brat who smashed her chair into the tree and caused the, I pointed my finger at her?”

“Well Mrs. Yearsley, as far as I can see, you seem to be the one liable for the damage to my office. Once the Will has been read, I shall demand that you pay for all the damage from the proceeds of your late husbands Will.

“I will do no such thing!”

Fotheringham ignored her rant. “That’s fine then.  You will receive a summons for the damage to my property, and subsequent recovery of the hundreds of case files damaged by the rain and wind, which was caused by you and your daughters.”

On the way-out Melony crept up behind me. “If you think you are going to get a penny from Jaba’s Will, you are very much mistaken.  He never had a bank account cause he left me to do all the house bills.”

“A week later, the five of us sat in Fotheringham’s new offices.  After the Will of Jabs had been read out, there was a pause.

“Are there any questions?” Fotheringham said in a tired voice.

I lent forward.  “Could you tell me the registration and make of Jeba’s car and where I can find it please?”

Fotheringham glanced down at the Will.  “You will find it parked in the multistory car park, bay 29 in Hounslow.  It’s a Bently Flying Spur, Its registration is JABA 007.  See me after and I shall give you the keys.

Melony then in a quiet voice asked how much capital she’d been left to by her beloved husband.

“Mrs. Yearsley, I bring your attention to my last letter of the 20^th of this month.  The amount your husband has left you, besides the house and his collection of beer mats, comes to the same amount of the invoice I sent you. If you wish to settle now, today, the matter of your late husbands Will is closed.  However, if you wish to pay in installments, the settlement date of your late husband’s Will, and my bill, will be 23^rd May in five year’s time.  Which is it to be?”

That afternoon I caught the bus down to the multi-story car park and made my way up to the second floor where I knew I would find bay 29.  I stood and stared at the Silver Grey Bently Flying Spur for ten minutes before opening it and sliding onto the soft leather seat.  The smell of polished wood and leather kept me mesmerized for another ten minutes until my eye caught sight of a note in the glove compartment.  It directed me to the boot of the car.

As I lifted the boot, I smiled.  The reason Jaba never trusted banks was because he stored all his ill-gotten gains in his battered old brief case in the boot of his old banger, as he used to call it.  After quickly counting the neat piles of £20 notes, I whistled to myself; £75,000, then promised my-self that I would raise a glass to him that evening down at the Duck and Pheasant.

Copyright Bob French