The Rectory Read online

  “I’ll take the card to the Bank on my way back and tomorrow you will be able to access the accounts and manage the shares. We’ll have the deeds ready for your signature by noon tomorrow, so if we meet again at the hotel we’ll complete the house and land transfers.”

  Bryony suddenly came to life and slid five box-files in my direction. I got another heart-stopping smile.

  “Red one is historical, blue one contains plans of this place, yellow one records of the share portfolio, green one has estimates we have obtained on the various repairs needed to the house and the black one contains other miscellaneous bits and pieces.”

  I had an uneasy feeling that she was also in a hurry to leave. She slid over two bunches of keys, one of which had little individual labels tied to each key.

  “Don’t forget the red key is the master that opens everything but the safe.”

  “Safe?”

  “It’s in the basement under the stairs and just has a few odd bits of paperwork in it.”

  I suddenly realised what she had said earlier and backtracked, “Why did you get estimates, surely that’s not part of your normal task?”

  She gave me her estate agent’s insincere smile.

  “Just being thorough in case we couldn’t find you.”

  It didn’t ring true, but as the rest of the day had had a dream like quality I didn’t press her. Sourpuss stood up.

  “Well I hope your happy with the legacy Mr Holmes, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I smiled and noted that he hadn’t offered to shake hands.

  “Where is the car?”

  “At Norman’s Classic Car restorers, doubtless he’ll be in touch.”

  “And what about your bill?”

  He gave a melancholic funeral like smile.

  “Mr Grant has already paid that.”

  They walked out in unison and left me sitting at the kitchen table with five box-files, two bunches of keys and the feeling that I had been stitched up, but how could that be?

  Chapter 3

  One Step Forward

  I awoke on Tuesday determined to enjoy the day, technically I had to be at work, but it would be being at work with a difference. You see I had no need to ask old Sourpuss which bank I had to collect money from as I had recognised the signature form; it was from my bank. The bank at which I slaved behind the counter for peanuts while my debts had slowly increased by the shed-load. Thus I arrived at the bank with a gleeful anticipation for the first time in many years and thought of Mr Knott. He was our branch manager, who alternated between being an obsequious toady to wealthy customers and an overbearing tyrant to the staff. Today I intended to undergo metamorphosis from staff to client and I wondered if he would in turn undergo a reverse-metamorphosis from tyrant to toady. By 9am I was ensconced at my window waiting for the doors to open and customers to appear when I got the summons to his office. I duly locked my till and went upstairs; as usual he was seated behind his desk like a fat slug in a faded blue suit. He looked up as I entered and rose to his feet so things were already looking up as he’d never done that before. He cleared his throat.

  “Come in Richard, take a seat.”

  We sat and I waited. He studied the file in front of him and I waited. His eyes met mine and I waited. He cleared his throat again.

  “This is rather an unusual situation, I had a visit yesterday from a Miss Bryony Carrington-Greeves of the solicitors Bladdel and Knutt, apparently you have inherited the Grant estate, is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  He shifted his weight from one buttock to the other, his piles must be playing up again. He swallowed as if fighting back bile.

  “I have the signature card from Miss Carrington-Greeves and her instructions that the estate is now yours.”

  He paused obviously finding this difficult.

  “Have you any immediate instructions for us?”

  I tried not to smile, after all handling money is a serious business.

  “Yes. I would like all the funds transferred into my existing current account, my staff loan paid off, my credit card cleared and the residue over £10000 placed in a Premier high interest savings account.”

  He gave the ghost of a smile.

  “I’m not sure that there’s enough in Mr Grant’s cash accounts to totally do what you request.”

  This time I did smile.

  “Can you tell me how much my share portfolio is worth”?

  He shifted buttocks again and consulted his computer screen before picking up the phone, I listened like a limpet on the side of a pleasure steamer. He looked away.

  “Ken, that portfolio we were discussing this morning, how much now?”

  He listened and then looked at me;

  “£221,000 and rising. Apparently you have a large holding in the Internet Auction house SoldToTheHigestBidder.com and its shares are going into orbit.”

  I paused for all of two seconds.

  “Tell Ken to sell the lot now and put the proceeds into my current account after working out the tax and placing an equivalent amount in a separate high interest Premier savings account.”

  He fixed me with a stare as if I had gone mad.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive, tell Ken to sell everything now and I mean now!.”

  He opened his mouth and then decided not to argue and duly repeated my instructions to Ken; I heard the squawk from his end of the line just before Mr Knott put the phone down. He cleared his throat again, it sounded like a lion being strangled in it’s sleep.

  “I would remind you that Premier accounts are for staff only and we will have to give you the standard high interest savings account.”

  I had expected this and locked eyes.

  “When did I cease to become staff?”

  I could see his mind calculating the extra half percent interest the staff account yielded on a quarter of a million.

  “I suppose you are, but I’d rather expected you to resign.”

  I crossed my legs, I knew he hated that.

  “Even if I do, I have to work a month’s notice and once I’ve had the accounts for a month and a day I can continue to hold them until I die; isn’t that called one of the enduring staff perks?”

  He sniffed and went for a bit of intimidation proving that he had not quite moved from tyrant to toady.

  “Isn’t that rather abusing the system Richard? Far better if you adopt a standard approach like any other customer.”

  “Why?”

  I knew why of course, the extra interest came straight off of the branch’s profitability and hence straight off of his potential bonus.

  He shuffled in his seat.

  “Do you intend to keep working?”

  “I don’t see why not, unless that is your offering me redundancy.”

  He stared at me like an owl startled in oncoming headlights. You see I already knew that he’d had the papers drawn up for me as my counter clerk colleague - the glorious Helen - had told me a month ago as a form of goad. He shook his head and I leant forward, now it was my turn at intimidation and I was going to enjoy every minute. I lowered my voice into what I hoped was an intimidating whisper.

  “I know you’ve got me in the frame, at least three separate people have told me. Now the deal is this, you make me redundant and I’ll keep my accounts here, my Premier savings accounts that is. No redundancy and I’ll pull out and go across the road.” I leant forward a little more, “And on the form I get from head office asking me politely why I have chosen to move my accounts I will cite your abrasive attitude.”

  I had him stitched up and he knew it. He was angling for a regional manager post and the loss of an account of over a quarter of a million would well and truly scupper that. He visibly turned a shade whiter.

  “It would have to be normal terms.”

  I was now savouring every second of our conversation. “Enhanced terms after all you really do want to get rid of me.”

  He grimaced.

  “So be i
t.”

  He fumbled in his desk drawer and pulled out a file and I realised that the rumours were right, he had earmarked me for the chop. He smiled a full blown toady smile with a complete measure of obsequiousness thrown in.

  “Normal terms and payouts plus and extra £1000 and two months notice that you do not have to work out.”

  “Plus buying back my outstanding leave?” I was not letting him off of the hook.

  “Plus the leave.”

  He selected a form and slid it across the table. I took ten minutes to read it and in that time he didn’t move an inch apart from his regular three-minute buttock shift. I slid the form back.

  “No; you have a better version that this. In this version I cease to be an employee at midnight on the day of signature.”

  He suppressed a scowl, selected another form and passed it over. Another ten minute read and I was satisfied; I duly signed the form and passed it back.

  “I’d like a copy of that now please.”

  He called in his secretary – the redoubtable Mrs Bliss – and she went out to copy the form. He puckered his lips and interlocked his fingers.

  “As you well know customers in your category are given a designated account manager, who do you want?”

  I contemplated the glorious Helen, just to rub her nose in it, but sense prevailed. “Vera.”

  Vera was homely, honest, had a mind like a razor’s edge and was universally known as Vera the vigilant . He smiled.

  “Interesting choice, but may I suggest William?”

  William was young, spotty, sure of himself and destined to lose many customers their well earned fortunes.

  “You may, but I’ll stick to Vera.”

  The phone rang and he snatched it up, nodded to the unseen speaker and put the phone down. “Ken says that the deed is done and he’s put £20,400 in your tax account, £217,200 in your savings account and taken £2400 as the bank’s fee.”

  “He’s assuming a 40% tax rate?”

  “That would be prudent.”

  Mrs Bliss returned and gave me a copy of the redundancy form, I fixed Mr Knott with a stare.

  “Do you expect me to work today?”

  He shook his head and I left to find Vera and have a good chat.

  Midday found me back at the plastic hotel, Bryony and Sourpuss were already settled in a corner seat. Today she was wearing a red dress with a diagonal black stripe from her left shoulder to her right knee like a road sign declaring ‘do not,’ do not what I wasn’t quite sure. I sat down and Sourpuss wordlessly slipped a change of title document under my nose.

  “What’s this for?”

  “House and paddock.”

  There followed three more change of title documents, one for two fields, one for one field and one for the fields each side of the church. This was followed by a letter prepared by them from me that gave the Radio museum continuing permission to display the seventeen radios; I gladly signed, I didn’t want them. Sourpuss neatly piled up the documents and gave a fair impression of a genuine smile.

  “Where do you want us to send the deeds?”

  “They’d better go to my solicitors, “Newberry and James, they’re at 203 the High Road, Eastburgh, IP67 9XX.”

  Sourpuss stood up and proffered his hand.

  “Good day Mr Holmes, our duties are now ended.”

  I felt an element of ‘Don’t call us because we won’t answer’ in his statement, but shook his hand all the same. Bryony gave a casual wave and they walked out of my life leaving behind The Rectory and a haunting feeling that somewhere along the line they were glad their task was over. Not glad as in a job well done, but glad as in no longer being responsible.

  The next couple of days became a blur as I moved into the studio flat above the garage, ensured that Vera had obtained a decent house and contents insurance – I didn’t want the place burning down with no recompense – and generally changed my life to live on the edge of Eastburgh rather than in the centre of Felburgh. By Friday morning I had my first good chance to sit down and study the contents of the box files. As it was a reasonably fine day I extracted the maps showing which fields I owned and had a traipse around. The four fields by the house were easy enough to locate, but initially the two fields by the church proved problematic mainly because there didn’t seem to be a church within easy reach of the house. Eventually I realised the topography - house to paddock to field to church and attendant fields. I duly walked off in the direction of the church and never made it for the simple reason that my field between paddock and church was waterlogged. So I had to revert to taking the car round the long way and then studying the fields from the road. One lay up against the graveyard and the other to the East of the church, neither were farmed and both looked used as car-parking space or fête fodder. I retreated home.

  Once back at the flat I made a cup of coffee and opened the green box file containing the estimates. In retrospect I should have poured myself a stiff brandy as the estimates seemed to come from a different planet. For instance for the window and door replacement, the cheapest quote was for just under £30,000 and nobody had quoted for floorboard replacement. I rapidly started doing some sums and quickly realised that I would be lucky to get away with a total refurbishment cost of less than £100,000, especially if I was going to have central heating and a burglar alarm fitted. I sat back to think and decided that a week ago I hadn’t had two pennies to rub together, so spending half of my cash on the house seemed reasonable, especially if it would enable me to make a killing when I sold it. I studied the quotes carefully and chose the second cheapest in all cases; I didn’t want the house to look ‘cheap’ when I put it on the market. I sat back and phoned the carpenter’s, the plumbers, the electrician’s and a general builder plus a flooring expert (from Yellow pages) and an interior designer. My aim was to bring the Rectory up to the standard of a million pound house; I knew it had the potential and I intended to make sure I made as much money from its sale as possible.

  Chapter 4

  Marking Time

  Sunday morning found me wondering about churches. When I lived in Felburgh I had attended the local Methodist church, but now I had moved house it was time to move on. I studied the local fact-sheet from the tourist office and had a tour around looking at buildings; you can tell a lot about a church from the outside. Despite my grandmothers eternal guidance to me that there was only one true church – the Welsh Methodists – I decided to try the local Baptist congregation. Before I entered I resolved on two things; one I would not tell them I had moved into the area and two I would not tell them I could play an organ. I had learnt from experience that to mention both facts would mean that before I knew where I was I would be signed up for twenty years of two services a day as organists were becoming a dying breed. The church proved warm and friendly and not for me. The hymns were out of a hymn book that should have been put out to pasture twenty years ago and I could have given thirty years to any member of the congregation and still been younger. I wanted to worship God, but I also wanted to worship God with people of my own age.

  Monday morning I had a series of visitors lined up. First on the list was a man from MotoMemorania Auctions who took away the Studebaker, the Ariel and the Mobylette for auction. I kept the Land Rover as he wasn’t interested in it and I had begun to suspect that I now probably lived miles from the nearest snow plough. Next up was the specialist carpenter who was going to make a new set of window frames and shutters. Turned out that he had the obtained original designs from a local historian, so apart from leaving him to measure a few items he was quite happy. My third visitor was the plumber, he spent ten minutes with me and assured me that all the lead pipe work would be replaced by the end of March along with the installation of the central heating. As he drove away I began to have a premonition of despair, he had been my third choice as the other two plumbers that had quoted were now ‘too busy’ to come and he had said that he could start on Wednesday; so how come he was free?

 
; I was stoking the fire in the lounge when my final visitor of the day drove onto the drive in a van that what I can only describe as a well-used. In other works it wasn’t a wreck, but not far off. The side of the van proclaimed that this was D & Y Cranstone Electrical and Burglar Alarm specialists. I watched the driver emerge from the vehicle dressed in a short-sleeved lumberjack shirt and faded jeans, the physic was all sinew and scrag and, when seen in profile, female. She came up to the front door and I opened it, her smile displayed a set of beautifully white manicured teeth.

  “Hello Richard, I thought it might be you when I saw the name.”

  My brain went into overdrive and I studied the face closely. Smooth cheeks, not chubby, but not flabby either. Brown eyes with crow’s hood type eyelids and tiny wrinkles at the corners. Semi-pointed nose well positioned between the eyes and mouth. Black eyebrows that had been plucked into submission. Well proportioned lips that were slightly moist and a fairly short haircut so that her raven black hair hung just below her ear lobes hiding her ears. She was plainly the tomboy from next door in appearance, but where was next door? She grinned again.

  “You don’t remember do you? I’m Yolande I was two years below you at school and for three years on the trot you played piano to accompany my dreadful violin playing at the school concert.”

  Dreadful was an understatement; dire, appalling, hideous, ghastly, gruesome, gut wrenchingly excruciating would have been a better portrayal.

  “Oh it wasn’t that bad.”

  She laughed, it sounded like a waterfall crossed with the hum of a generator;

  “Oh come on, even my father said it was awful.”

  “Have you kept it up?”

  “No fear, I know when I’m beaten.”

  I remembered her rendering of ‘When You Go Down To The Woods Today’ and mentally squirmed with embarrassment. I opened the door wider and she walked in, her eyes taking in the oversize hall.

  “My father says that this is some place.”

  “You haven’t been here?”