The Child Windfall

The bank check – or whatever this was he had found – had been made out to “Child.” What child? Whose child? And why was this kid getting a check for $20,000? A check written in 1790!

Ben wasn’t sure if the worn, faded and damaged piece of paper was legit. Why was it sandwiched into this black leather notebook in his family’s collection of hand-me-downs?

And what would this child in 1790 have done with the twenty thousand dollars that was the amount of the check? It was twenty thousand something – that designation was worn away from the paper.

Ben had seen a couple of British TV shows where a large inheritance or annuity paid out a “handsome” annual 200-or-so Pounds – enough to live comfortably in 18th Century England, if not as an earl or maybe a viscount. Ben hadn’t really cared. But this was 100 times that.

...And now, three weeks after that discovery, Ben Pattridge was standing in London, in front of the Royal Courts of Justice, looking across Fleet Street at a building he had no reason to know even existed. A statue of a dragon atop a pedestal blocked his view of his destination across the street -- a symbolic obstacle to the truth about the notebook, the check, the child, and their history: history buried among the photos, family records, clippings, and rotted satin pillows that had probably housed generations of mice in his barn.

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Last month, Ben had found the bank draft inserted firmly between pages of this classic leather notebook, in a cardboard box among dozens of cardboard boxes and newer, plastic container tubs that had made their way to his property from family in Iowa. Both Ben's parents had family that had come from Iowa, and, before that, from Massachusetts, and, before that, from England. Ben found himself surprised that those two families hadn’t hooked up before now. Maybe they were on opposite sides in the Revolutionary War.

But with about fifteen years left on his mortgage – fifteen-and-a-half, if you counted the months he was behind on his payments – Ben had looked at the check he’d found, and the number “20,000” on it. The zeroes had begun to look like life preservers. Why was this check amongst his family’s records? An extra $20,000 would hold off the wolves with a little extra left over, Ben knew.

Of course, that was nuts; this was just an ancient scrap of paper. It had what seemed to be a cancellation on the back, of course, and the bank had returned the check for the account holder’s records. It certainly wasn’t made out to him.

But the amount drew him to imagine fantastic possibilities, like the lighted red lottery jackpot numbers at the convenience stores, or the numbers in the Publisher’s Clearinghouse commercials. And desperation had already set in over his last few months of financial erosion.

Ben’s full legal name was Eli Benoni Pattridge. He figured the graying paper was authentic, whatever it was. Ben had guessed the check was from Eli Partridge, his five-times-great grandfather, born in 1729. And Ben’s middle name, Benoni, was from Eli’s father, born in 1687. The man who today had possession of this delicate 18th Century bank draft didn’t happen to care for his given first name, Eli, and he just went by his middle name, Ben. He never made it a point to clarify that his full middle name was Benoni instead of Benjamin; “Benoni” had too much potential for abuse during his formative years. He had just stuck with Ben. Why did families drag up stupid, ancient names that nobody used anymore and stick them on their kids?

“Look at these names,” Ben clucked to himself, as he leafed through the black journal’s seemingly endless list of his ancestors: names like Prussia, Mehitable, Winslow (not so bad), Magdalena. His family’s first couple centuries in America, beginning in the mid-1600s, were listed in this journal.

According to the notebook, the original Eli had died in New Hampshire, sometime "after 1800.” How his ancestor Eli had avoided joining the parade of his family’s Conestoga wagons heading to Iowa was lost in the mists of history, but his son Abel evidently had made the journey. Six-times-great grandfather Benoni had probably let his full first name slip out and was hooted out of Medfield, Massachusetts, or Medway, Massachusetts – whatever. Poor sap. Ben had looked it up: both towns in Massachusetts also happened to be town names in the Sussex region of England.

Old Eli Partridge had been traced back to his grandfather, John Partridge. John had been landed gentry, in England’s Massachusetts Bay Colony in the 17th Century. John’s holdings, it was recorded, included land, shipping and tea. Old John had died in 1743. Shipping and tea, Ben thought..."old money," indeed!

And now this, what -- ”financial instrument?” – that Ben held had apparently been worth at least twenty thousand...dollars? Massachusetts issued its own state currency, in pounds, shillings and pence, until 1793...but that currency would be worthless today. Could it have been in English Pounds? This check was drafted well before Euros came into being. The signature was visible but illegible. The year – 1790 – was clear enough.

Old John couldn’t have written the check; who had? And, as Ben had asked himself dozens of times in the last few weeks, who was the “Child”? And, most importantly: where had the twenty G’s gone?

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Ben had done his homework. Now, he stood across from the address 1 Fleet Street, EC4, London -- Child & Company, Bankers.

Ben's credit card had stood up just long enough to purchase a plane ticket to London. He'd packed a small bag with the journal and all its ephemeral contents. Yesterday evening out of Chicago, after a day’s drive over the Mississippi and across Illinois, he had boarded a plane at O’Hare.

Ben had packed the check, placing it back into the notebook for the trip. That leather cover and fine paper had protected the check for over 200 years so far…

Child and Company had long been incorporated under the Royal Bank of Scotland. The existing building dated from 1873. The company dated from over two centuries before that. “Child,” to whom the check had been made out, was not a person -- it was the oldest bank in the United Kingdom -- and third oldest in the world! Ben walked to the pedestrian crossing and waited for the light to change. There was no way he was going to get close to the end of this journey and get hit by London traffic in the last half a block. Ben entered and presented himself at the reception desk.

He had emailed his story to the Fleet Street address and had received a polite and interested response by mail. The check had been written, the banker’s letter had explained, in 1790, made out to “Child & Company” to open an account. Without providing further explanation, the bank's letter had requested that Ben send a facsimile for investigation. Ben had scanned both sides of the check, even though the only word legible on the check besides the date was “Child.” There was enough other imprinted ink, like the account number and cancellation marks on the check, to make it worth their while to research.

In further correspondence, they had asked, would he present the check for examination? Ben had no interest, if they just wanted it for their archives, or even to frame and hang in their lobby. At best, it would not have been worth his meager current finances to make the journey.

But his disinterest had lost out quickly to curiosity – and, being honest, to financial desperation. He had found himself never letting the leather-bound notebook out of his sight for any length of time. He had slept badly. Like a hooked fish, he had been floundering desperately. By the time he had settled into one of the bank office’s leather chairs with two of the bank’s officers, he was nervous enough: what if the check was worthless?

What if it wasn’t?

“The check was written by your ancestor Eli Partridge, Mister... Pattridge,” the banker had explained, emphasizing the very slight difference in the surnames. “You have presented bona fide identification which we have confirmed as part of due diligence, of course. You are who you say you are.” He had hesitated before adding, “but your name, sir, is “Pattridge,” with two ‘Ts’…” The banker’s voice had trailed off, inviting an explanation for the discrepancy.

Ben had always had a theory about that. The family’s Boston accent, with its scarcely-pronounced “r,” would have morphed the name from “Partridge” to “PAH-tridge.” That first “r” in his surname would have become simply a second “t.” And in the notebook, he’d showed them, that change had occurred somewhere in the mid-to-late 1800s, when great-great-grandfather Albert Partridge’s son had somehow become Ben’s great-grandfather, Otis Pattridge. There was no reason noted in the journal as to why.

The banker had smiled. He seemed to have asked a question to which he had already known the answer. The banker gave American Eli Ben Pattridge the verdict: Eli Partridge had inherited Old John's estate, as Benoni’s eldest son, and had established the account before he headed to New Hampshire, and the rest of the family headed west from Massachusetts. Why the family had lost track of the account, no one could know. Someone simply forgot, or perhaps didn’t pass along the specifics of where that part of the family fortune was stashed.

The check was genuine. The account had been opened by Ben’s namesake and ancestor, Eli, in 1790, for 20-thousand Pounds. The account had remained with Child & Company for all these years. And there had never been a withdrawal.

And instructions with the account had been painstakingly specific: the eldest male heir, current social mores notwithstanding, was to inherit. Ben had no cousins; he was the soul heir to twenty thousand pounds.

With interest compounded over two centuries.

Ben had not said anything while he absorbed the information. He had not asked the obvious question. He assumed that the oldest bank in the U.K. would have figured that out for him already. And then he did ask. And the banker passed across the desk a folder, stopping next to the black notebook Ben had opened on the desk to show the family tree. Inside the folder, the top page showed a brief description of the account in its current state. The bank had already assigned the account to its newest heir and only needed signatures on a page here and there to complete the transfer.

The new Account Holder, Eli Benoni Pattridge, had savings in the Child & Company Bank on Fleet Street in London -- British Sterling totaling three million, sixty-five thousand, six hundred-sixty-eight pounds. And 78 cents.

And they waited for the American to ask the next obvious question.

Mr. VanWarmer – the banker’s name was VanWarmer – shared the conversion: in U-S Dollars, that total, depending on the exchange rate that day, was just slightly under 4-point-2 million. Mr. VanWarmer stood up and walked around his desk and offered a hand. “Congratulations, Mr. Pattridge. Child and Company has stewarded your family account for 230 years. We hope that we can continue to serve you in whatever way possible, Sir.”

To which Mr. Pattridge replied, “It would be my pleasure.“

He looked briefly at Mr. VanWarmer and the other banker in the office with them.

“And please: call me ‘Benoni.’”