Southend U3A

July 2023

The picture in the Attic - Malcolm Fyfe

The van rattled and bumped its way along to the job for the day.

I looked around the people who were on board with me, the usual misfits, one young woman whose bloodshot eyes and half covered track marks on her arm betrayed her habit.

My last experience in court had led to two hundred hours of community service, although I felt lucky, it could have been worse, I was pushing my luck and the inside of a cell didn’t appeal to me at all.

The system made me work and not in the best of places, it depended on the gang I was out with.

The van lurched to a stop and the supervisor motioned us out onto the street.

‘Ok, job today is working in this old office, its being done up you’re here to help the jobs running behind time so the builders on the job need a hand to get it done. You three,’ pointing to me and two other lads, ‘upstairs to the loft area. Builders will be here to show you the job off you go, tools are up there and we know what’s up there so no disappearing hammers or screwdrivers get it?! I’ll be up later to sign your hours.’

The others followed me. I was glad about that, working with an addict can be tricky, looking over my shoulder at the girl with the beginning of the shakes, not much use for anything. Sounds hard but whatever I’d done, drugs were not part of my life and never would be.

In the loft space, most of the old boards had been ripped up except for a few in a far corner. I looked around, no sign of a builder but it was obvious what needed to be done, so I picked a nail bar and prized up a couple of boards, watching for electric cables. I’d been on sites before so I knew what to look for.

A board came up with a screech of a rusty nail and I saw the corner of a stained brown paper covered package. Tugging it towards me, a corner got ripped, showing what looked like part of a picture frame. Looking around to see if anyone was watching, I slipped off my jacket, slipped out the whole thing and wrapped it up. I’d come for it later on.

After dark, I borrowed a push bike from outside someone’s house – well, they shouldn’t leave it, should they – and slipped back to the office.

The back door lock didn’t cause a problem. (An apprentice locksmith once showed me the basics of padlocks, very useful in times of need.)

I zipped up to the loft space, picked up the parcel and back to my room in less than an hour, and the bike returned, I might add, what do you think I am?!

Undoing the paper, I rubbed the cracked glass clean and stared at the painting of a proud looking kilted soldier’s military jacket and wearing a Glengarry at a jaunty angle and white spats over polished shoes.

Turning it over, a label with faded writing spelt out Sergeant Robert Hudson, the Argyll and Southerland highlanders.

Definitely worth something to a collector I thought.

A few days later I showed it a dealer whose daily activities were less than legal. ‘What you reckon?’

His sarcastic tone was less than helpful or even hopeful in the direction of me making any money from it.

‘The frame’s worth more than the picture.’

‘It’s got to be worth few quid,’ I protested.

‘No, it’s not but I think know where it came from; a couple of lads did a house near here several years ago, a lot of military stuff, medals and old coins and whatever else, all moved on in the Lanes in Brighton.

‘Where was the house?’ I asked.

‘Last house in Henley Rd, probably a relative of him.’ tapping the glass.

‘Doubt if they’re still there, fair old time ago.’

Later on, with the picture now tucked away under my bed, I wondered what to do with it, so next morning I took a stroll up the road to where the burglary had taken place.

Not much of a place, rather down at heel end terrace with an overgrown garden, now that told me probably old people living there, couldn’t keep the place in order.

As I went to move on, the front door opened and sure enough an elderly lady using a walking frame struggled out and shut the door, putting her keys inside the lid of a rather well used trolly.

I had to laugh as she had a wrestle with an elastic strap which she used to tie down the top flap but she was determined and won in the end.

I could see her face clearly, she had high cheek bones and a bit of a chin on her, quite a character.

She pushed down the path and into the street, moving stiffly with uncomfortably stiff knees.

I watched her on her way, thinking: got to well into her nineties but managing. That evening I studied the picture, perhaps with the old lady in mind. Was there a likeness? I couldn’t be sure . . . maybe.

I couldn’t sleep that night wondering how I would feel if it a picture of my son, or possibly her husband, was stolen with other valuables, medals and other personal belongings. Pretty sad that’s for sure – this one wasn’t going away and I knew it.

I kept an eye on her house and knew she always went out and came back with her trolley around the same time, around ten in the morning having got her bits from the corner shop.

I knew what I wanted to do but didn’t want to scare her.

I had a good look at the house no window locks and the front door lock was an old yale, pretty old, and surely the back door would be the same but going into her house wasn’t on.

I slipped down the path and very soon did what I needed to do.

I tucked myself away when she was due back, just in time to see the old lady get to her gate and make her way up her way along the black and white diamond patterned path, fumbling for her purse and her key kept on a length of string.

I saw her look at the door sill and pause, look and look again, reaching down, she picked up the package feeling its shape, her fingers tugging at its old wrapping paper.

The paper fell away and she peered at the picture, staring and bringing it up to her face, clutching the trolley handle with one hand.

Momentarily she appeared to sag, seeking support from the wall at her back, her eyes closed for a few moments and I noticed her shaking hand.

As if summoning up her strength, she straightened her back as best she could and, clutching the picture, unlocked the door and, tugging her trolley behind her, going inside, taking her memories into her private world.