Southend U3A

September 2023

The Locked trunk (continued from the July story The Picture in the Attic) - Pete Norman

John was really excited about his impending Grand Design.

Finding the perfect house had been a bit of a struggle but he had got there in the end and the house seemed to be absolutely perfect.

Making the decisions about what to keep, what to modify and what to remove was also quite a struggle as he had been forced to keep going back over again and again because every new change seemed to have some impact on the one before.

Despite all of this, he had finally managed to produce the Renovation ‘Plan of work proposed’. He ran a final appraising eye over the papers and then carried them through to his super-critical clients: his wife Maggie and his 9-year-old son Andy. It took some time to explain some of the more obscure scribblings on the plans but, in the end, both appeared to be totally satisfied with the outcome. Maggie was going to have her beautiful open plan kitchen diner and a solarium while Andy would have the large bedroom he had coveted from day one – complete with the gargoyle dangling precariously over the window.

John smiled. ‘There you go, then, everyone is happy, so now we can get the ball rolling.’

Andy cut in, ‘But Daddy, have you asked the man in the attic if he is happy?’

John felt an icy chill run down his spine. After what had happened in the attic when they had first viewed the house, he had no idea how to respond to his son. What with all of the planning and drawing, he had all but forgotten but now the bizarre moment came flooding back to him: how his son, in some sort of trance, had spoken in a man’s deep voice; how the voice had said, ‘I BUILT THIS HOUSE. TAKE GOOD CARE OF IT’.

He glanced down at the plans, which his family had fully approved but he wondered if he could be just as certain that the changes would satisfy the man in the picture – the architect who had originally built the house all those years ago.

Andy broke into his thoughts again. ‘We have to ask him, daddy.’

Maggie, who had never been party to the bizarre incident, listened in amazement as John re-told the strange story, at the conclusion of which she insisted that the three of them paid a visit to the attic.

Maggie held Andy close to her and far enough away for safety, while John rolled out the plans and held them up in front of the man in the picture. He felt utterly ridiculous and for a few moments, he held his breath while Maggie tightened her grip on her precious son.

Absolutely nothing happened . . .

. . . but as John turned away from the picture, Andy whispered, ‘Daddy, the man says he’s happy.’

John spun back to the picture but he could see no change in the impenetrable stare, not the slightest indication of his approval. However, he smiled at his predecessor. ‘I will treat her very gently, I promise you.’

It might have appeared that he had now reached the point where he was ready to start but in reality, all he had done so far was just the easy bit.

The building was Grade 2 listed.

The Planning Department had clearly pledged to make it their life’s work to object to every single alteration, no matter how trivial, that he had planned – and to so many more that he had not planned – which they considered ‘essential to the preservation of the house’ in the manner that they considered necessary.

This battle lasted for months – a battle where he might well have won the occasional skirmish along the way but, in the end, he lost the actual war. The additional work they had insisted upon had blown a huge hole in his original estimate and the struggle to manage the extra costs had caused him sleepless nights for a very long time.

However, despite all of the problems, after a few months, the building work did finally begin and work seemed to be progressing very well. Frank and his team were the best in the business and all of the outdoor work had now been completed – despite the constant and pedantic interference from the Council – and the emphasis had now passed to the interior.

The entrance hall was impressive but it was tired and in need of quite sympathetic handling. John and Frank spent some time trying to work out which bits were too tired and which might survive with a little help. Their main problem – the alcove halfway down the hall – had clearly suffered and that would need a lot of attention.

Frank looked thoughtfully at the alcove, ‘That there’s a big empty space, it really needs something in there to fill it and maybe that might go some way to helping how you end up treating it.’ John nodded. ‘I was thinking of a picture that might be just perfect for there.’

Frank snorted. ‘It’d have to be a bloody big picture . . .’

John smiled. ‘Oh, yes, it’s big alright. Come and see for yourself.’

In the attic John pointed to the painting and then to the detail of the architect’s tools. He looked the man in the eye and smiled. ‘This is the man who built this house, Frank and I think he’ll be very happy indeed to hang in pride of place in the hallway after all this time.’

Frank nodded. ‘Seems reasonable.’ He pointed to the large trunk the portrait was resting on. ‘And if you wanted to fill the rest of the gap, I reckon that box is just about big enough – it looks like posh enough anyway. Have you got any idea what’s in it?’

John had known that the trunk was there from day one but he had never really given it much thought after that. It was indeed a posh trunk and, yes, it would be interesting to take a look inside. Together they manhandled the large portrait away and John tried to lift the lid but it wouldn’t move. Frank pointed to the large lock hole. ‘I don’t suppose they left you a key?’

John shook his head. Apart from the painting and the trunk, there was very little that had been left behind when the house had been cleared. However, his mind was racing. ‘If you lock an impressively large trunk and then hide the key, then perhaps that’s where they hid something really valuable – like all the family silver?’

‘You wish!’ Frank gripped the end of the trunk and strained. It lifted an inch off the floor and then dropped back down again with a dull thump. He stared at it thoughtfully. ‘I reckon me and the lads could probably get it downstairs for you but you’d need a pretty good locksmith to open it.’ He smiled. ‘Luckily, I know just the man.’

T'was on the Monday morning, when the locksmith came to call . . . (with apologies to Flanders and Swan)

Harry looked as if he was well past retirement age but he carried with him the air of someone who not only knew everything about locks but that there was no lock anywhere that he couldn’t open.

He stood for some time looking at the trunk. He walked around it twice, as if its secrets might somehow be hidden elsewhere else. He tugged uselessly at the lid and then stepped back and pulled a roll-up from behind his ear.

‘Well, that’s a bugger!’ was his professional opinion. He lit the cigarette and then took a deep drag. ‘You never told me it was this big.’ He patted his tool kit. ‘If I tried to touch it with these, I’d bend me picks.’

John and Frank stayed quiet while Harry deliberated a little more.

‘I reckon a stick of dynamite might be needed but it’ll have to be next week now.’

John hoped that he was joking about the dynamite – but he did sound deadly serious.

Over the next few days, the hallway was brought back to life and the alcove was re-plastered. The portrait was carried downstairs and John stood back as Frank’s crew hoisted it up onto the wall in pride of place. As he stepped back, Frank said, ‘Well, he looks happy to be there, don’t you think?’

John nodded. He had been watching the face carefully and he was absolutely certain that the smile had warmed for just a moment.

T'was on the following Tuesday morning, when the locksmith came to call again.

This time he brought along an enormous claw hammer, two long crowbars and a handful of strong iron rods . . . and an 18yr old apprentice built like a brick out-house . . .

While they were working Andy was banned from the attic due to the likelihood that his vocabulary would become much darker. John, however, watched in awe. Even though no dynamite was involved, Harry and Brent worked their loud and brutal magic for almost an hour, before, with an almost inaudible click, the lock finally surrendered.

All of the trials and tribulations of the past few months evaporated. John was desperate to see what was inside the trunk. He reached out to open the lid . . . but thought better. This was important, his family should be here – and he hoped, fervently, that after all of this, it would be worth the effort.

Maggie and Andy, Frank and all of his team and a couple of plasterers all gathered around the trunk for the ceremonial opening. John held his breath and pushed open the lid. At first glance it looked empty but when he shone a light inside, he could see something large and flat and black at the bottom. He reached down but he couldn’t quite touch it with his fingertips.

Andy pulled away from his mum and ran to the box. ‘I can get it,’ he said.

Maggie screamed out, ‘No . . .’ but Andy had already scaled the side of the trunk in one leap and disappeared inside . . .

. . . the lid slammed down . . .

. . . a forest of hands seized the lid and yanked it upwards . . .

Andy’s face popped up again. ‘I can’t lift it.’ He was struggling to hold up the end of a large, flat and very heavy bag. Frank took hold of the bag while John dragged his son out of the box and hugged him tightly, mumbling, ‘You mad little bugger, you!’

Maggie was right beside them. ‘And I know exactly where he gets that from.’

The bag was laid out on the floor and Harry bent to take a closer look. His eyes lit up. ‘I know exactly what that is, folks.’ He tugged at the leather straps and pulled the edges apart. Inside was a beautiful uniform: a pale blue jacket, emblazoned with gold braid in thick stripes across the breast and, in finer detail, an intricate gold pattern across each wrist; a wide sash of white flowed from the shoulder to the waist; bright red trousers with gold stripes appeared only lightly creased after a lifetime of storage. Alone now in the trunk and completing the uniform, was a large round box, inside which was a tall black hat, adorned with a red tassel.

John gasped. ‘That’s really beautiful, I wonder which regiment it was.’

Harry grinned. ‘I’ll tell you not only his regiment but also the exact date when he wore it.’

Everyone turned to him in amazement.

‘Military history is my sort of thing, you see. Try 25 October 1854 . . . at Balaklava . . .’ He paused for effect. ‘The charge of the Light Brigade.’ He stroked the breast of the jacket where it looked as if a stain had been carefully cleaned and where some neat stiches covered a small damaged area. ‘I reckon he might have retired after that one – and then come home and built his big posh house.’

John stared in amazement. ‘But in the picture, he’s an architect, not a . . .’

Frank smiled. ‘Architect? . . . posh job – posh bloke? . . . rich family? – that makes him officer material – and this here’s an officer’s uniform.’ His smile widened. ‘I’m gonna have fun researching this one!’