Legacy

The light was streaming through the window, as Angelica sat on the sofa sipping tea from her favourite mug. As she placed it back on the table, Marilyn Monroe's screen-printed face gazed up at Angelica from her neon pink background. Andy Warhol had always been a hero of Angelica's, particularly during her time at Art College and Doug had given her the mug during their first Christmas as a couple.

She went over the patio doors and looked out at the beautiful blue April sky. The birds were tweeting in the tall tree at end of the garden and Angelica took a deep breath and enjoyed the moment. Then her gaze lowered and she began to see the brambles, tangling their way around the fence panels, then the cow parsley growing with abandon through the whole central section of the garden, not to mention the bindweed, smothering the solitary rose bush and the dandelion ridden lawn.

I really need to do something about that garden thought Angelica.

Lockdown had come quite unexpectedly last month and thrown Angelica's life into turmoil. She had been put on furlough with only a weeks notice and it was taking time for her adjust to the lack of routine that a full-time job provided. She had only taken the job in the ladies clothes shop eight months ago, when she and Doug had relocated to Wiltshire from Dorset, and she had just begun to feel settled.

Looking out at the beautiful Spring day, she felt determined that she would use her new found time productively to create an inviting space. So, she changed into some old jogging bottoms torn at the knee and a spotty tee-shirt with a speckling of holes and set off along the overgrown path to the little shed at the bottom of the garden. Inside she discovered a rusting spade, fork and shears, along with a beaten assortment of hand tools.

Those will do for a start, she thought and set about cutting the unruly brambles and bindweed followed by digging up the weeds.

On the fifth day of digging, she was tired and achy and beginning to wonder why she started this mammoth task in the first place. During the monotony of weeding, she was beginning to plan her lunchtime menu. Leftover lasagne would be nice with some iceberg and fresh tomato... Then suddenly her fork jarred on something, jolting her body and her mind out of her daydream. She tentatively stuck her fork into the soil again and again it stopped. The sound was of metal hitting metal and after days of finding only bits of broken ceramic, she wondered what this could be. She took her spade and began to remove the soil. Just as she was beginning to see a flat section of rusting metal, Doug walked quietly up the garden.

“I wondered where you were all this time,” he said, while surveying his wife's handiwork in the garden, “It's looking good.”

“I must've lost track of time.” She threw the spade into the soil with a sense of accomplishment and headed inside for lunch. She barely saw Doug these days, as he spent the day working as a trainee accountant in their improvised office in the spare room or studying for his exams in the evening. She looked forward to their mealtimes together, regardless of what there was to eat.

On her return to the garden, Angelica began to feel excited about the object buried in the earth and headed straight over to continue removing soil. It wasn't long until she'd uncovered a rectangle of metal the size of a magazine. She loosened the soil around the edges, then tugged on the box that was beginning to reveal itself. As the box came out of the earth she fell back and landed bottom first on some dry mud. It didn't quash her excitement, as she investigated the metal box. It had a silvery base, with traces of blue paint in flecks all over it, interspersed with patches of rust from its damp tomb. There was a latch on the front a bit like the ones on the Kilner jars her Mum used to pack her delicious homemade strawberry jam into. Angelica couldn't wait until she had strawberries growing in her garden.

She tried to pull the base of the latch towards her, but it's damp home had stiffened it, so she tried again and again until it began to move. Then she pulled the hook down until finally it was free. She prized open the lid and what she saw next sent her into a state of disbelief. She shut her eyes for a second, but it was still there when she opened them. It was a plastic bag containing money. A lot of money. She removed it. Surely it can't be real... She delved her hand into the bag and took out a solitary £50 note. She held it up to the light. A watermark. She could she the queens' profile. Was she judging Angelica for wanting this money? She popped it back into the bag quickly, nervously. As she glanced at the box again, she saw something else inside. The sun revealed a leathery texture to the dark object. Angelica delicately lifted a small battered black notebook from the box. It was damp, with an unpleasant odour and left behind a small puddle of blackened water in the box. As she examined the empty box she could see a tiny hole in the top corner to the left of the latch. She tried to open the book, but the pages were stuck fast. The only way to reveal the origin of this money was destroyed...

She hurriedly bundled everything back into the box and rushed inside, not wanting anyone to discover her find. After all, it wasn't meant for her. She laid everything out on the kitchen table and began to count the notes. £14,190. It can't be. But it is.

Her mind began to work overtime. Why would someone bury all that money? Is it stolen? Drug money? Unwanted gift? (yeah right!) The more she thought, the more outrageous her ideas became. Then, her whole body went cold as a thought passed through her like a ghost. My husband?

Douglas had worked as a post office clerk for 10 years at a little Village Post Office in Dorset. He had enjoyed his job. He got to meet new people and came to know the regulars very well. Towards the end of his time there he was beginning to become cynical about it. There had been lots of changes from head office and he was worried they would close all the small counters. Then, one evening, while he was at the pub with friends, there was a robbery. The cash machine at the front of the building was stolen. The offenders used explosives to force the machine out of the wall. After that, Doug was too nervous to go back. The reality of working with real money hit home and he didn't want to risk his life for it. That's when he decided to retrain as an accountant. Virtual money, he said, was much safer. He found a nice firm of accounts in Wiltshire and persuaded Angelica that a new start was what they needed. At first, she wasn't convinced. She worked in a small pottery, decorating the plates and vases. It wasn't the glittering art career she had dreamed of but it was creative and she enjoyed it. On the other hand, perhaps this was her chance to make a change, to work on her own art. So, they found a small, cosy house and moved in.

They never found the perpetrators of the robbery. He was late back that night. What if that's why he was so keen to leave it all behind. No. He wouldn't keep that from me, he couldn't.

The sound of magpies in the large ash tree drifted through the open door.

Angelica's thoughts started to become more logical. Surely there wouldn't have been that much money in a cashpoint. When would he have buried the box? He's really not one to get his hands dirty...

She gradually realised it couldn't have been him. A huge sense of relief swept over her, but at the same time there was guilt. Incredible guilt. How could I doubt him? To accuse him of such awful things. What has this money done to me?

The clouds began to darken to charcoal.

In the midst of her guilt Angelica remembered the small black book. Is there any way to salvage it? To find out what the money is really for? She grabbed the laptop from the side of the leather sofa and typed into the search box, how to recover a water damaged book.

The website told her to steam the pages by holding the book above a pan of boiling water. This would soften the pages, allowing them to be separated. Sounds easy enough, she thought as she reached for a saucepan. Filling it with water, she glanced out of the window to see the first raindrops falling from a now slate coloured sky.

Angelica held the book over the boiling water, the steam seeping its way into the pages. The tips of her fingers began to redden and sting with the heat, but she was not going to be put off. She took the book and began to gently pull the top right hand corner of the cover away from the front page. They began to separate. Gently. She could see some writing. Gently. Then a tear began to crawl its way over the surface. Her disappointment was hard to disguise. Never mind. Try again. More steam. She attempted the process again and managed to ply two pages apart. Then another two, until half the book was separated.

Sat at the table she began to mull over the contents of the book. It contained tables of figures.

At that moment, Doug appeared from upstairs, taking in the picture of Angelica surrounded by piles of cash. What has she done to get all that money?

Unable to hide his suspicious tone he asked, “What's going on?”

“I dug this up in the garden. I'm trying to work out who it belongs to.”

She sounds sincere. The box does have mud on it. She wouldn't lie about this surely?

Angelica turned the book around for Doug to see.

“It looks like someone's accounts.” It's not her writing, thank goodness. “I think someone was saving up for their retirement. Look,” he said pointing at the chart, “It's got wages listed here, some winnings from the horses here and outgoings here.”

“There aren't many outgoings. A car service, some groceries.”

“It looks like they lived very modestly to save for their future.”

“He. Look.” Angelica had turned back to the torn second page.

In case of loss, please return to Albert Hanbury, 8 Holly Road

The name and address were handwritten in a steady hand, with large cursive letters slanting to the right.

“Albert Hanbury,” Doug thought out loud, “Didn't he own this house before us?”

Angelica thought back to when they purchased the property. The previous owner had passed away and he had no family to leave it to, so it was auctioned. So there was no one to leave the money to. Angelica felt bad that her first thought was to keep the money and not for the plight of the poor lonely man who never got to spend his savings.

Two years later, Angelica was taking a break from working in her art studio and Doug was on his lunch break from the office. They had met in the town park and sat on their usual bench to eat. Between them was a plaque in polished brass in memory of a forgotten hero, Albert Hanbury.