Southend U3A

September 2023

The Locked Trunk - Marie Day

Alarm set. Lights turned off. Door closed and locked. Another scintillating day at ‘Dark, Drab and Murky’ over. It’s June; at least it’s still light for my walk home. But wouldn’t you know it, just as I step onto the pavement, spots of rain land on my head. The pleasant evening stroll turns into a ‘turn up my collar, avoid the puddles’ trudge down the road to my flat. Opening the door and escaping the deluge now cascading from the sky, I notice one piece of mail laying on the doormat. I closed the door and divested myself of my now dripping coat, hung it on a coat peg to drip despondently onto the carpet and picked up the letter.

I recognised the senders immediately. Creamy coloured, thick expensive envelope. I’d had one exactly the same six months ago. That particular letter had caused me to raise my hopes of a different life only to have my dreams become the butt of many a poor joke at my place of work. Yes, the letter was from ‘Hope, Faith and Long’ solicitors. It brought back memories of the previous winter. I could hear them all now.

‘Let me introduce my assistant, Della. Yes, she’s the one.’ (Knowing looks all-round the room.)

Those who had heard the story looked at me as if I’d covered over the ‘Sistine Chapel’ with a paint roller and a tin of Dulux.

‘Had a restorer wipe off an actual A.G. Carrick.’ Ho! Ho! Ho! Oh, how they all enjoyed a good laugh at my expense.

I looked at my name, Della Ware. I wondered what the news was this time? Another long, lost relative found in the depths of Essex? I sat down at the table and before opening the letter looked up at the wall. A small painting hung there – an old lady comfortably sitting with a cat on her lap and a dog at her feet. She was smiling and the animals looked as if they were too or was it a snigger? Anyway, I opened the envelope and prepared to read.

Dear, Miss Ware,
I hope you are enjoying your inheritance from your late aunt, Miss Land. (Hmm) Recently the auction of the contents of her cottage went ahead. You will be pleased to know this realised the sum of £125,000. (Lucky old furry paws and waggy tails!) This should have concluded the matter before the sale of the cottage itself. Unfortunately, the terms and conditions expressed to us as executors was that if any lots were outstanding from the auction, they should be offered to yourself or your cousin, Mr. Egan (Oh ho, now we might be onto something!) We have in fact one lot unsold and if you are interested, please contact Ms. Long at our offices and we will confirm a date for a meeting.
Yours etc. etc.

There was no mention of what the lot was but I know it shouldn’t but hope springs eternal and all that. I gave one last look at the smiling (possible smirking) trio on the wall and decided to call Ms. Long from work the next morning. I arrived early for work. Mr. Murky looked surprised. I got as much work done as I could. I got another longer look from Mr. Murky. As we approached mid-morning, I made him a cup of tea. Mr. Murky still avoided comment as I placed it in front of him.

In my best ‘assistant who values her employer’s opinion’ voice I said, ‘Would it be all right if I took a couple of days off.’

I then explained the letter from the solicitors who had dealt with my previous inheritance. Was that a slight smirk on Mr. Murky’s face or a trick of the light?

He said in a rather strangled voice, ‘You seem to be making a habit of this Miss Dare.’

Twice in six months seemed a bit of an exaggeration I thought but didn’t say it out loud.

‘I’ll take holiday again.’ I emphasised the ‘again’ but it was lost on him.

‘Who knows what I might find this time.’ I added hopefully.

‘More pet memorabilia or are you hoping for royal connections?’ he chuckled at his own bad joke. Then he said more kindly, ‘All right but I want no more cottages, old ladies, cats or dogs.’

I drank my own tea as I placed the call to Ms. Long and the appointment was made.

I ran home, collected my bag and, not wishing to jinx things, didn’t glance in the direction of Aunt Mary and her two furry confederates as I left for Colchester. My trusty Micra deposited me at the solicitor’s office a few hours later. As I walked in, I noticed a bright red Porsche parked outside. Ms. Long showed me to the same office as before. Mitch nodded a greeting as I sat down. Ms. Long began immediately. ‘I won’t keep you waiting. You know there is one lot left from the auction. To view it you will need to drive to the cottage where Mrs. Island is waiting for you.’

After we agreed we were interested, we shook hands and left. Mitch, to zoom off in his shiny Porsche and me at a more sedate speed in my dusty Micra.

I arrived at the cottage to find Mitch leaning on the car bonnet. Before we went in, he said. ‘I hope this is not another waste of time.’ The most he’d ever said to me. We turned and there was Mrs. Island smiling and waving to us at the door. She ushered us through into the almost empty cottage. She showed us to a room with one item on the floor. It was a large trunk.

‘That’s it?’ offered Mitch.

‘Why didn’t it sell?’ I asked.

Mrs. Island smiled that sweet smile and answered, ‘The trouble is, it’s locked and no one can open it. We thought you two might be able to think of something. Of course, whatever is inside would be yours to share. We need to get rid of it so the sale of the cottage can go ahead.’

Mitch and I glanced at each other, both thinking I thought the same thing: fool’s errand. Still, surely, it had to be better than a tatty copy of a non 1st Edition Harry Potter or a painting of Aunty and her pals. Mrs. Island gave us a huge ring of keys they’d already tried and, leaving us to our task, wandered off, as seemed to be her habit, to the kitchen.

We tried all the keys with little hope of success. When that failed, Mitch decided brute force might be the answer. He went out into the back garden and raided an old shed and staggered back with various implements. A crowbar, some pliers, a bent garden fork; we tried them all. Even a thingamajig with pointy ends that looked more like a dangerous weapon but just like everything else it left us red faced, frustrated with the effort and no closer to opening the trunk. One final idea came to us. The hidden button or lever! We were so engrossed in pressing, sliding and squeezing anything that looked remotely like a button, switch or drawer that we didn’t notice Mrs. Island return to the room. When we did notice, the usual sugary smile was completely gone. She had the customary tea towel in her hands which she threw on the floor and revealed in her hand a gun which was most definitely pointing at us.

It was such a shock; Mitch and I couldn’t utter a word. Then Mrs. Island opened the conversation; gone was the sweet nature and soft voice. ‘Well, is it open yet? You were my last chance of finding anything of value in this thatched hovel.’

Mitch found his voice and said hesitantly, ‘We’ve tried everything, Rhoda – er – Mrs. Island.’

‘So I see. I might have known you’d be useless. I worked for that old biddy for 25 years and did I get a mention in the will? You two useless articles had your chance and messed it up. That trunk was my last chance of something to pay me for all the skivvying and clearing up after the never ending furry, hairy, smelly creatures she was always spending her money on.’

Mitch had never struck me as the most talkative of people but he carried on speaking and nodding as if they were gossiping over the garden fence. ‘Give us one more chance to get it open. There’s only one thing we haven’t tried.’ It was as if he was discussing the best way to get the stains out of tea towels. He looked at me and said, ‘We can turn it upside down.’ He finished as if he was declaring a cure for the common cold.

I thought it was daft but we were in a delicate position and Rhoda Island was in a delicate state of mind, so I nodded. We stood at each end of the trunk, lifted it as best we could and tipped it over. It crashed to the floor and although the lock stayed in place, the lid split. Why, oh why, didn’t we find an axe in the shed instead of a thingamajig with pointy ends? Rhoda waved the gun and told us to turn it over to view the treasure inside. It was so heavy surely there must be something with some value inside. As we pushed it over the reason it was so heavy became apparent. I knew exactly what it was. Two large objects fell to the floor. Unlike Mitch, I knew them in 2D but now they appeared in all their 3D glory.

Rhoda Island dropped to her knees and began to laugh hysterically. The sound rose to a high-pitched wail. As she sobbed uncontrollably Mitch gingerly took the gun from her hand. I set the two objects upright and glimpsed Mitch out of the corner of my eye. I think we both wanted to join in the sobbing but we both laughed instead. We managed to get Rhoda onto her feet. I phoned for an ambulance and the police. It was a bit difficult to know what to do with a sobbing old lady, a gun and the contents of the trunk. I think at first they thought we were a hoax call. Mrs. Island was eventually taken to hospital still in a terrible state after Mitch and I told our story to an incredulous police constable and it was confirmed by Ms Long.

Mitch and I parted, promising to keep in touch this time. The reason he was so calm throughout was because his job involved interacting with groups at a leisure centre who were taught relaxation techniques to help them in their highly pressurised working conditions. The Porsche by the way belongs to his boss, a Miss Ida Hoe, who occasionally lets her employees borrow it. I can just see Mr. Murky lending me anything fancier than a penny farthing. Mitch sped off with an almost empty car. I however had a couple of things to load. Funny Mitch didn’t want his share; said the experience was quite enough for him. At home I staggered into the flat and put my new inheritance on the floor. Not too sure how I feel about taxidermy but my spare bedroom has two new ornaments. A dog called Charlie and a cat called Millie. I moved the painting in there as well so they could be together for eternity. I was just glad Aunt Mary hadn’t opted for the same preservation method herself. And I think I agree with my aunt’s friend all those years ago: the eyes do follow you round the room.