What Price Paradise? by Wendy Staples
The shadows were lengthening across the lawn towards Molly’s deckchair; turning the parched, dun coloured grass to a dull rusty brown, and heralding the tepid whisper of a breeze, which had begun to flutter the pages of the book she held in her lap. She replaced her book mark and sighed as she eased herself forward. It was becoming harder to heave herself out of a chair these days. In fact most things were getting harder.
She carefully folded the deckchair and, with her book tucked under her arm, carried it across to the lean to beside the rustic garden wall. The top of the wall was warm from the day’s sunshine and Molly ran her hand lovingly along its uneven surface; tracing the outline of the glossy flints with the tips of her gnarled fingers. She paused as she located a new crack in the rough mortar and sighed; her lips pursing in an expression of frustration. Something else that needed attention. She knew very well that her days in the house were numbered; not simply because she had surely used up her allotted span upon the earth, but on account of the unstable cliff edge just metres beyond the garden wall.
From within the house she heard the sound of her doorbell ringing and, reluctantly turning her back on the approaching evening, made her way up the uneven brick pathway and into the kitchen. From here she had a clear view towards the small window beside the front door and could see through the glass the untidy grey hair and red bulbous nose of Mr Alan Hutchinson’s profile. ‘Oh, drat the man!’ Molly thought. ‘Why can’t he leave me alone? If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a dozen times; I am not going to sell the house.’ She couldn’t understand why anyone would want to buy it anyway. It stood in a row of unremarkable mid Victorian cottages, close to the escarpment bordering the river valley, which cut through the surrounding hillsides like a weeping wound. In any other position the house would need a serious amount of money spent on it to up date it, but the constant erosion of the cliff face meant that some day soon it would topple into the valley and no amount of paint and paper would save it.
She was about to slip around the corner of the Welsh dresser to hide and avoid answering the door, when Mr Hutchinson spotted her and waved enthusiastically through the window. Now she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t at home and reluctantly shuffled down the passageway to let him in.
“Evening, dear. And what a lovely one too!” Alan Hutchinson wiped his feet carefully on the worn coir mat just inside the door and squeezed himself past Molly’s generous waistline. “And how are we today? Been enjoying the sunshine?”
Molly grunted her assent and led the way back to the kitchen. Alan Hutchinson had only recently rented one of the newer houses around the corner, and had taken to enjoying a pre prandial saunter along in front of the row of cottages and back again; pausing to chat with anyone who happened to be leaning over their front gate. But for some reason, which at first Molly couldn’t understand, he had pressed his friendship on her especially and had been only too eager to accept her invitation to share a pot of tea and partake of a small sherry. It soon became clear, however, that, apart from the tea and sherry, the purpose of his evening visits was to try to persuade her to sell up.
“You see,” he had explained to her. “I have such fond memories of this house, because my grandparents used to live here, so I know it well, and would love to live here myself.”
“But it may fall down into the valley at any minute.” Molly had argued.
“Not at all. There are ways of halting the erosion. At least for as long as I should be alive.”
Molly was unconvinced by his argument and called upon her niece to do some research into previous owners, but this had proved nothing, and all she could assume was that he was mildly eccentric. She couldn’t be bothered to challenge him over it and she did often enjoy the company; she’d sometimes felt lonely since her husband Jacko, almost ten years her junior, had passed away suddenly. But just lately Mr Hutchinson had been most insistent that she consider his offer. To be truthful she wasn’t in the mood for him this evening, but good manners prevented her from turning him away, and thankfully he didn’t stay too long.
Once he’d departed she made her way out to the garden once more and made a closer inspection of the crack in the wall. It was worse than she thought and ran all the way down to the base and along the line of gravel at the edge of the lawn. ‘Nothing I can do about that now.’ she thought. ‘Jacko built that wall so quickly, I bet he didn’t mix the mortar properly. I’ll sort it out tomorrow.’
The day’s heat had built steadily until, as dusk fell, the sky became heavy with voluptuous thunder clouds, which in the early hours unleashed their fury in a theatrical display of ‘Son et Lumiere’ and torrential downpours. Molly, however, managed to sleep through it all and awoke next morning to a different outlook from her bedroom window. The section of cracked wall had succumbed to the force of the storm and lay as a heap of rubble beyond the garden, leaving a shallow trench and a noticeably shorter area of cliff top in view. “Maybe it’s time to go after all.’ she sighed to herself and once dressed, walked hesitatingly down the garden to survey the damage.
Peering down into the exposed trench, which was partially filled with murky water, Molly could see a package wrapped in black polythene and sealed with rotting gaffer tape, protruding from the mud. ‘What on earth?’ she thought, looking closer and trying not to slip into the hole herself. Determined to extract the parcel, she fetched a long rake from the lean to and gradually eased it from the trench and onto the lawn. It didn’t appear too large for her to carry, but bending over to pick it up proved a little troublesome. Nevertheless, she eventually managed to roll it along the lawn with the rake and hooked it onto a large, upturned flower pot, which enabled her to grasp it without bending too far. Once she’d carried it into the house, she placed it in the kitchen sink to allow the water to drain away and began to peel away the wrapping.
As the final layer of plastic disentangled itself to reveal the contents, Molly’s heart gave a decidedly uncomfortable lurch. She stood with her mouth half open at the sight of dozens of rings, brooches, necklaces and bracelets, all studded with a dazzling array of precious stones, set in platinum and gold. Her thoughts were racing, but she was certain of one thing; that this was the haul from the robbery at the jewellers in the high street over a year ago. The news was splashed all over the local paper for weeks afterwards, with the offer of a reward for any information. But what settled it for Molly was that, amongst the glittering heap, she could see a delicately wrought brooch in the shape of a bird of paradise, which she had been drawn to in the shop window and had tried unsuccessfully to persuade Jacko to buy for her.
Now the awful truth was beginning to dawn on her; her Jacko, a thief, and possibly worse, had deceived her, and she’d been blissfully unaware of his criminal activity. This was why he’d built the wall in such a hurry while she was away visiting her sister. And how on earth had he committed a robbery like this on his own? Or had he? Supposing he’d had help. Suddenly the thought of Alan Hutchinson popped into her head and his eagerness to get his hands on the house began to make sense. Well, there was only one way to find out. She must confront him.
That evening she waited for Alan to call, with the contents of the parcel laid out neatly on the kitchen table, the stones winking and shining in the rays of the setting sun, while she mulled over what she would do the next day. The door bell duly rang and Molly ushered Alan through, watching him to gauge his reaction. At the sight of the haul he stopped in his tracks and spun round to look at Molly, an expression of shock, bewilderment and anger on his face. For a few seconds he was lost for words, but taking a deep breath and swallowing hard he stepped forward to examine the jewels more closely.
“Are these yours… I mean… do you know…?” he stuttered helplessly as he ran his fingers over some of the sparkling array.
“Oh, yes. I think I know where this has come from.” Molly answered, trying to look innocent. “It was buried by the garden wall and I believe it’s all the stuff that was stolen from the jewellers, so whoever took it must have hidden it, expecting to get rid of it once the heat had died down, so to speak.” She ushered Alan into a chair and handed him a glass of sherry. “I shall take it to the jewellers tomorrow and they can call the police. I expect they can dust it for finger prints or something.” She smiled to herself as she noted how pale Alan had become as he realised that he had just handled some of the items. “Still,” she continued. “if I wipe everything first, that will let the thieves off the hook. No need to go chasing them if everything is returned safely. I would imagine this little lot would buy at least two houses like mine, don’t you think?”
Alan was slumped in the chair looking extremely miserable, but was trying to give a weak smile of agreement.
“Now I’ve been thinking.” Molly went on. “It probably is time to sell up and move somewhere more suitable, so I believe I will accept your offer after all, Alan. What do you say?”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He could feel his heart beating uncomfortably and his blood pressure starting to rise. All that planning between himself and Pete after Jacko had so selfishly gone and had a heart attack within a couple of days of them burying the loot, and congratulating themselves on the thought that they wouldn’t have to share the spoils with Jacko after all. And now this. “I… might have changed my mind too.” he whispered, taking a large swig of sherry and getting to his feet a little unsteadily. “I’ll pop by tomorrow.” And swaying slightly, he made his way to the front door.
Molly helped herself to another sherry and set out her cleaning rags, preparing to work late into the night. The following morning she set off towards the jewellers in the centre of the town and paused briefly on the pavement, surveying the luxurious display in the window. Then humming gently to herself she continued on towards the station, where she purchased a ticket to take her to Hatton Garden, and settled herself by a window with a bag of softly jingling loose stones sitting comfortingly on her lap and a bird of paradise brooch pinned to her coat collar sparkling smugly in the sunshine.
