A NEW BEGINNING

 A NEW BEGINNING                                                                                                 

by Richard Banks

It was Sarah’s idea to buy the Old House. She had had enough of London. It was, she said, time to make a new start while we were still young enough. It would be our project, one we could do together. We would be a team again like we were before my job became more important to me than her. That is nonsense of course, and she knows it, but what I can’t deny is that my ascent up the corporate ladder had left us with little time to ourselves.

         It was, I told myself, the price to be paid for a salary that allowed us to reside in a part of London that would have seemed impossible when we were students living together in a scruffy bedsit above a burger bar. But like any upgrade there was a price to be paid. Was there ever a moment, day or night, when I wasn’t hard at work or half expecting the telephone to ring with problems that would have me rushing back to the office. Even the freebie tickets they gave me for big showbiz and sporting events were never free from the obligation to network and chase new business. Then there was the merger and that was when enough became more than enough. Time to leave. So, now my time is my own. I’m on a gap year. Well, if the kids can do it, so can I! Not that I’ll be short of things to do, Sarah will see to that, but this time it’s about us. She deserves that, and so do I.

         The Old House has definitely seen better days. Sarah says that when her grandmother was a girl it was the grandest house in the hundred, a mile out of town and with well tended gardens the size of three or four fields; but that was then, and many years of decline have reduced it to the near ruin it is today. The main advantage in buying a ruin, probably the only one, is that the asking price goes down rather than up. Already low enough to be within our price range I learned that the local council was considering compulsory purchase with a view to replacing the house with a housing estate. There was no time to lose, and when I offered a sum well below the advertised price, the owners - a distant offshoot of the minor nobility that once lived there - realised that a low offer was better than an even lower one they couldn’t say no to.

         On completion we put our furniture in storage and moved into a caravan in the front garden. From there we would sally out and do everything that was needed. At least that was the plan, but when it became obvious that the roof was letting in almost as much rain as it was keeping out we had no choice but to pay a roofer to replace it with a new one. Unsurprisingly our next discovery was wet rot, and another job for local industry. But after that it was us, all us, learning the skills that were needed to do everything else that had to be done.

         Even our slow start had not been time wasted. While the professionals were at work so were we, clearing the long neglected gardens of chest high brambles, nettles and every other weed known to man. We slew all before us, including a half dead birch tree which I felled within a foot of the spot I was aiming at.

         Sarah was nervous seeing me, axe in hand, but she had nothing to be concerned about. As I have told her, the destruction of my desk was a symbolic act of defiance, nothing more. No harm was meant, not even to that vulgar, little Yank who was taking my place. I couldn’t stop him taking my job but he wasn’t having the desk I had sat at for fifteen years. Some of the old guard cheered me. They stood well back when they saw what I was about to do, only the Yank came running over and tried to stop me. Did I mean to hit him when I swung the axe back over my head? Of course not. I was looking at the desk, not him.

         It was all hushed up, of course, for the sake of the firm, and I received the severance pay that had been agreed, but the Yank put it about that I was unfit for future employment, and that ended my career in financial services. But what do I care. Like every man worth his salt I won’t be kept down; I will come again, reinvent myself, find a new niche in life. Until then I will restore this house, make it better than ever, no effort spared, and with new hydraulics throughout the house we were now ready to install the new kitchen that Sarah had seen, and just couldn’t do without. Us, just us. Who would have thought it. Even the builder who came round touting for business could find no fault with what we had done.

         It was on returning from Wickes one afternoon that we came across the new Volvo of my former employer parked at the top of the driveway outside the conservatory. Any thoughts I had that he had come with a job offer were soon put to rest. This was a social visit; he was in the area and thought he would drop by to see if I was, “all right”. Better than him, I was tempted to say, but didn’t. Even he could see how fit I was, how I had shed the corporate flab for a leaner, more active me. Sir, or JT as he likes to be called by senior management, once had a brief fling with my wife. At least that’s what he thinks happened. The truth is somewhat different.

         I first noticed he was attracted to Sarah at the firm’s annual dinner and dance. It was while I was dancing with his wife, Lady Yiewsley – surely a sign that I was under serious consideration to replace my old boss in accounts – that they discovered a mutual interest in the opera. He had a pair of tickets for Figaro at Covent Garden, and as his dear wife was out of town that evening and unable to attend, he wondered whether Sarah would like to fill a seat that otherwise would be unused. Knowing his reputation Sarah played for time. She would, she told him, have to check her diary and promised to get back to him on the mobile number he gave her.

         Having reported all this to me we thought a night at the opera was not an unreasonable price to pay for what would hopefully be another step up the greasy pole. With the promotion still not decided the opera was followed by dinner at the Ritz when Lady Yiewsley was again out of town and I was in Switzerland on company business. I arrived back ahead of schedule the next morning to find Sarah not at home. When she returned an hour later in her fur and evening dress it was only too obvious what had happened. To her credit she made no attempt to deny it. Indeed she could not have been more forthcoming on what she regarded as an experience akin to being smothered by a dead sheep. The good news, however, was that she had taken every opportunity to stress my suitability for said promotion and that Sir had agreed I was the best man for the job. When this was confirmed a week later I wrote an unsigned letter to Lady Yiewsley informing her that her husband had been seen leaving the Savoy with a woman, somewhat younger than himself, at 7am in the morning. With JT brought back to the straight and narrow and on the tightest of leashes his texts and phone calls to Sarah ceased and, to the best of my knowledge, they only saw each other at corporate events where Lady Yiewsley was always at his side.

         So, what is he doing here unchaperoned - not to see me I wager? Does he really think that after all these years he can rekindle their imagined affair? What a pathetic, deluded little bore he is and yet Sarah’s surprise at seeing him has no trace of the deep distain she should be feeling. Indeed she appears perfectly at ease in his company. Has she forgotten all that happened; how when the merger was agreed he abandoned me, cast me aside like I was of no value or use, while he stayed on as Chairman. Betrayal it was, brutal betrayal!

         Sarah casts an anxious glance in my direction. This is dragging me back when I was doing so well. I take a deep breath. Sarah slips a pill into my hand and suggests that I show JT the garden. She knows I’m better outside. More deep breaths. It’s going to be OK I tell myself. Inadvertently I say this out loud. He thinks I’m referring to the garden. He raises an eyebrow at the pyramid of wood and other combustibles towering over what was once the bowling green. Finding nothing, OK or otherwise, to say about it he turns his gaze towards the shed I have constructed from flatpack. He makes an idiot remark about it being my hideaway from the ‘trouble and strife’ who will always have something for us to do. How dare he be so slighting to the woman I love, the woman he would take from me, just like he took my job!

         The door is open and I invite him in for a glass of the double malt I say is inside. There is no malt, nothing inside but my garden tools and the axe.

                                                                          

                                                  *****

         Sarah says that I must steady myself, that it wasn’t my fault. He had no right to be here. What has happened is unfortunate, a setback, but nothing that need do us any harm. No one heard him scream and, more than likely, no one saw him turn into the driveway. It will be our secret and, if we don’t panic, no one will ever know but ourselves.

         She has already moved his car into the garage where it can’t be seen and checked his mobile to make sure there’s nothing on it about us. With luck he will have told no one of his intention to visit. If the police should come we will say that JT paid us a courtesy call and departed within an hour. If they don’t, we do nothing, nothing at all but enjoy our new life. Anyway, what can they do without a body?

         Already we have doused it with petrol and pushed it into the mounting tip of rubbish that will be his funeral pyre. Tomorrow we will set it on fire and reduce everything to dust and ashes. It will be yet another step in our new beginning. In death, as in life, we triumph yet again. 

 

Copyright Richard Banks

 

 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

 

Riddles 20

 Riddles 20

By the Riddler 

The Riddler has three puzzles for us today:

 

No 1.  I’m a colour, but you can eat me!  What am I?

 

No 2.  You’re my brother but I am not your brother! Who am I?

 

No 3.  I’m unstoppable, but easy to waste!  What am I?

 

Keep em coming Riddler

 

 

Ancestry

By Barbara Thomas 

The study of your Ancestors and where it can lead you, if you are lucky, or in several places unlucky… 

It all began when a man turned up at a pub in the South of London claiming that it was his belief that the elderly man sitting there was his father: George William Glenham.

Hereby lies a tale:

So where do I start? 

Let’s begin here:

1 marriage 2 bigamist marriages to two sisters, 8 years apart.

2 children from a legitimate marriage 10 years apart after leaving and then returning years later. 

1 child by 1st bigamist marriage both mother and child died within a year of each other sadly.  Seven children from 2nd bigamist marriage then lived happily with that person until he died after years of “marriage bliss” 

As mentioned above this was a very complex case which included

change of names from George William Glenham to Samuel George Thomas illegally.

He married both sisters in church under the aka name of Samuel George Thomas, who had falsified Marriage certificates. 

Two birth certificates, 1 legal and 1 illegal.

Legal  ~ George William Glenham born Dec 1905.

Illegal ~ Samuel George Thomas  born Jan 1906.

Big mistake was putting different parents on each of the certificate’s. 

Though I found out that both George William Thomas parents were actually born in the East end of London

Samuel George Thomas’s falsified certificate of Parents supposedly born in Scotland.

What a pickle, one of the first things my husband asked me to solve when we met; knowing my hobby was (and still is) Genealogy. 

I stared confidently following all the clues of my husband’s dad’s certificates, as I thought they contained correct information.

When I came across a problem Tom my husband pointed out that he had vivid memories of his grandmother living in Bow in London

Where as I had his grandparents living in Scotland.

I did a U turn then, and back tracked with the new information he had given me. 

What a hornets nest I discovered, or should I say can of worms I opened. 

As mentioned before I found a marriage but no divorce papers then two more marriages in a different name from his birth name plus both fathers names and trades on all certificates were different 

What a malarkey as my Irish grandmother would have said.

The deeper I went the more I discovered… 

George William Glenham had a best friend George Clifton they had known each other since childhood. This friend had been the best man to all 3 marriages knowing that two were illegitimate.

I don’t know for sure but I have reason to think when Glenham, under the name of Thomas, married both sisters Rebecca and Alice neither had any idea that he was a married man as by then he had changed his name to Samuel George Thomas. 

George William Thomas and George Clifton both had joined the army before WWII but had deserted their posts and were court marshalled and told that if that had happened in WWI both would have been shot!

Later during WWII both men were conscripted into Churchill’s Home guard based in Wales at the Royal fusiliers’ camp. 

George Clifton lodged at George William Glenham’s parents home but in 1941 both George William Glenham’s. mother and best friend Clifton went away together and moved to Essex.

George William Glenham’s father William James Glenham was suffering from depression at the time and finding out what his wife had done he sadly took his own life drinking a whole bottle of Jeyes fluid…

William James Glenham had had a distinguished army career both in the boar war and WWI and had been mentioned in dispatches 

It all began to unravel as right in the beginning the man that had gone looking for his father was George William Glenham jnr. and apparently according to eye witnesses George William Glenham aka Samuel George Thomas, after being confronted said “I’ve been a naughty boy.”

When asked why the son after all these years wanted from his father. George William Jnr’s reply was now he had eventually met his father his only ambition was to have a drink with him, afterwards they shook hands and he walked, never to be heard from again.

Stranger still George William Glenham worked at the same place in South London all his working life where his lawful wife would take their son as a baby in a pram to wait at the firm’s gates on payday to collect her wages.

I kept finding more info, and again years later when my husband had his pub on the Harold Hill estate Essex. There was a terrible accident just down the road an elderly man was knocked down and killed outright by a lorry. 

That’s when I discovered the man’s name was George Clifton, George William Glenham’s friend who years before had moved in with his mother and set up home in Essex. 

Also strangely enough my husband told me that at his marriage to wife Sheila the sisters of George William Glenham’s were invited, but he told me he had no recollection even seeing them before or who had invited them. This was only discovered when I found a wedding photo of all 3.

Sheila sadly died as did my husband Alfie so as a widower I would be able to marry again. 

First meeting with the family was fun; I think not!!

I had discovered this huge skeleton in their families’ cupboard and it was my first time meeting them all, funnily enough at a family wedding.

Another tragic coincidence within the last 3 years that happened to both my husband and myself was that both our eldest son’s Stephen Gary Thomas and Daniel Patrick Quinlan from our 1st marriages died. Both Steve and Danny as they were known in the family will always hold a special place in our hearts. 

Whilst finding out about my husband’s late family I was contacted through Ancestry by cousins, nieces, and nephew’s all trying to collate George William Glenham’s chequered families past.

Again strangely all the male children of Samuel George Thomas have William as their second name.

 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

The Zombie Drug…

 The Zombie Drug… 

By Len Morgan 

   Marcus was smooth, suave, and sophisticated. He liked drinking in different bars, as the mood took him; he had an ulterior motive. He had a host of clever chat up lines that he used to good effect to lure young women into his influence.  If one line doesn’t pique a woman’s interest he would try another.  But, if there were other equally desirable young women in the bar he would simply change his tack and hit on them, in the certain knowledge that his good looks and fake charm would grab their attention.  His method was to treat a young woman as if she was the only girl in the room, offer to buy her a drink, then another and another.  Eventually she would have to visit the ladies room.  That is when he would slip a roofie into her drink... 

Veronica, Cloe, and Crystal were young women on a mission, trolling the bars looking for their mark.  Cloe checked out the bar, “He’s in here,” she told the others, “Far end, propping up the bar.”

Veronica entered the bar and in a short while Marcus sidled up beside her. 

  “Hi I’m Marcus; it seems I’ve been stood up by my date.” 

  “That’s a shame, maybe we can talk while we wait, I’m also alone, a friend was supposed to meet me here but she hasn’t arrived yet.” 

  “That’s my good fortune,” he smiled, disarmingly “What’s your poison?” 

  “Oh that’s kind of you; I’ll have a gin & tonic.” 

  “I like this bar, it has a nice atmosphere, and the music is background; not too ‘in your face’,” he said. 

  “I’m Ronnie,” she said, “Oh look, there’s an empty table over there, why don’t we sit and chat.” 

  “A good idea, let me take the drinks over,” he smiled again.

‘Maybe he wasn’t the mark they were looking for,’ she thought looking towards Crystal and Cloe. Cloe nodded to confirm he was the one they were looking for. 

  “You’ll have to excuse me, I need to visit the ladies,” she smiled and headed across the room.  She visited a cubicle to relieve herself. Leaving the cubicle she freshened up her lippy, whilst waiting for Crystal to arrive.    

  “He did it Ron, Cloe confirms he’s the one!” 

  “Are the rest of the girls outside?” 

  “Ready and waiting,” said Crystal taking a small vial from her purse and handing it to Ronnie.  

“Are you sure this will work?” Ronnie asked as she unscrewed the lid and applied a little of the green fluid to her lips, “here goes nothing…” she said. 

Ronnie gave him a pleasant smile as she sat at the table. “I noticed there are nuts on the bar, drinking always makes me hungry, would you mind asking if they can spare some?” 

  “I’ll find out,” he said and went over to the bar. While he was out of sight she poured her drink into a nearby potted plant and refilled the glass with water. 

He returned triumphant with a small dish of nuts, “you haven’t touched your drink, is something wrong with it?” he asked. 

  “It’s fine,” she assured him, and emptied the glass in one. 

“Let me get you another,” he said, taking their glasses back to the bar. 

When he returned she leaned across the table and, spontaneously kissed him full on the lips, “you’re Angel,” she said, before drinking it down. Then, she took a napkin from her bag and wiped her lips. 

  Crystal joined them at the table, and said “stand up.” Marcus obeyed. 

  Ronnie took out her phone and dialled. “Hi girls, the fish is in the net, come and join us!” 

Two ladies entered and headed for their table. 

  “He’s the one,” Cloe said, preparing to attack him. 

  “Shhh,” Crystal soothed her.  “He’s completely under our control.  My grand mother was a voodoo priestess, and we used one of her potions to turn him into a zombie it will only last for 24 hours.  So let’s take full advantage of that time; unleash a little girl power.” “We’re taking him back to your apartment.” Ronnie said.  “We’ll humiliate him like he did to you, and heaven knows how many others.”

“Great idea! Let get out of here,” Cloe said. 

”Follow me!” Crystal commanded, Ronnie, and Marcus headed for the door, the others followed them.   

“Don’t feel sorry for him Cloe, his bottle of tablets is less than half full so you were not his only victim,” said Ronnie. 

Back at Cloe’s apartment they stripped him, dressed him in ladies underwear and wrote abusive words on his chest with waterproof lipstick. 

“Do you have your tattooing kit ready Ronnie?” 

“I have luminous red ink and a special stencil prepared,” she said.

“When you’re done, we can take him to the park and leave him on the ‘roundabout’, leave his clothes in a neat pile beside him. 

Two young constables took one look at the ‘RAPIST’ tattoo on his forehead, found the bottle of roofies in his jacket pocket and called for a car to take him to the station.

Two weeks later, the girls saw his picture in the local paper and read the story ‘6 month for possession and use of ‘rohypnol’, the banned rape drug.’

 

Copyright Len Morgan

 

The last Will and Testament

By Barbara Thomas

Hold up your hands how many reading this now have actually made out a Will

Let me tell you about one specific person who never left a Will and on dying therefore was not able to instruct how he wanted his funeral either burial/cremation Christian or Humanitarian

But the main object of the Will was to find out who was down as his next of kin.

Being a ladies man this man had a chequered past married twice with at least 3 common law wives plus a scattering of lady friends.

You can see the predicament, to whom or who will receive his worldly gifts.

Also without a Will who will pick up the tab?

I’ll help you out, you see it was our son who passed away suddenly.

During his working life he had been on the river Thames as a waterman worked at a timber mill, as a bus driver, taxi driver,

And manager at both his father and aunt’s pubs.

At the time of his untimely death he had been working with mentally ill patients in a residential setting near where he lived with a girlfriend in Catford, South London. 

Unfortunately, he had been found outside his workplace unconscious, and died still in a coma 3 days later. He had suffered a massive heart attack and because he wasn’t found for one hour he received severe and irreversible brain damage and the life machine was switched off by two of his four children on July 2nd 2021.

Heartbroken my husband and I tried to make sense of it all as he was only 58 years old.

Then reality set in. Who was going to pay for the funeral, as we now know there was no Will.

It fell on both my husband and I to contact solicitors and ask for advice

As I mentioned our Steve loved the ladies but where was the second wife and had they divorced?

The current ladyfriend made big ripples, I had to freeze all his bank and credit cards as at first she was having a great time spending

We were advised to become Executors,

giving us the authority to look into any life insurances Steve may have had. I texted, phoned emailed determined to collect some monies somehow.

There were papers galore I had to collate including Bank statements to check, the list goes on.

We had some luck when a family member remembered where the last wife used to live, we followed the lead and it turned out that this wife had never moved out of the home she had shared with our son and they had never divorced, apparently she told us Steve used to often visit her.

So now we have next of kin, who legally could claim anything she liked only she didn’t want to be involved. They had only been married 1 year before they parted

More problems once we had contacted her we were then only errand boys.

Our hands were tied so we went back to the solicitors and paid another £1,000 for Deed of variation to allow us to intervene for the reluctant next of Kin. 

Then came the funeral, his harem all wanted a piece of him, there was a lot of bad feeling, especially from Steve’s latest lady friend

I put my foot down and said as his parents we would be picking up the tab and the funeral would not become a circus but a celebration of a life gone before his time. 

The funeral went as well as could be expected some even said it was lovely with all the funny anecdotes that Steve got up to plus all the tunes we knew he loved especially at the end “I’m for ever blowing bubbles” he would have loved that being an ardent West Ham supporter all his life like his Dad and Grandad before him. 

The wake was interesting to say the least women eyeballing each other. Oh Steve we had no idea you were such a ladies man. 

I discovered a life insurance “hurrah“ followed by monies from his days as a bus driver. 

Now the monies at last was coming in the outstanding bills were being paid out. Alas not much savings for all those years of working hard, Steve lived for the day. There were credit agreements although sadly did not die at his demise.

It’s ok getting a credit agreement but you never know how your circumstances will be over a length of time and this is what we had to cope with.

A Will would have saved us the stress that we went through at that period.

 

So my message to all you people what ever walk of life please find out about making a Will.

Find time otherwise it may fall on your loved one’s shoulders. 

Apparently I am told you do not have to go to a solicitor as long it is signed witnessed-and dated.

Leave getting a Will at your peril!! 

Copyright Barbara Thomas

 

 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