A Strange Discovery

I have often enjoyed my solitary walks through nature.


Mornings such as today were such that could only be described with the word ‘fine’. Not ‘beautiful’, not ‘perfect’, such words seemed overly magical and perhaps unreal for my liking. The sun was shining brightly, with little wisps of white among blue skies. That, too, was ideal. I had always found entirely blue skies oppressive in their intensity. The temperature was the perfect balance of warmth, just slightly too warm but with a light breeze to balance out the surplus. The shadows of the trees provided momentary comfort, with the small distance between them arousing a faint longing for their shelter which was momentarily satisfied upon reaching the next.


Upon such days, staying inside would have been an intolerable notion. I found too strongly how the bright beams would shine too powerfully on my white, reflecting paper, that my hands were warmed by the sunbeams and felt uncomfortable, that I was wasting such beautiful weather which, in the centre of London, was so rare to come by. And so I put aside my French notes, and decided, without much preamble, to dress myself in a t-shirt and shorts and to leave the house. As usual, my cat followed me to the door, watching me as I put my boots on. This compelled me to cross the few steps which distanced myself from her and stroke her with a few gentle caresses. She pressed against my hand with a contented look. Sensing that the limit had been reached, I gave her a final brush of farewell against her cheek and left the house.


My walk began, as usual, through the local park. To get there, I as usual took the path through the greenery which surrounded my house. The path was, in a way, an exploration of the suburban parts of London. One would pass by plain houses on the left, bordered with a fence, with plenty of grass and trees on the right. There was also a river on the right that flowed with a cheerful gurgle, although unfortunately there were no fish. It amused me to jump from one side to the other. The jump itself was relatively simple, only a few feet of distance, and the river itself was only four feet deep. Hardly enough to injure oneself in case of a fall. Yet I rarely risked jumping. Early memories of falling and scraping knees with a landing in cold, unpleasant water had been enough to instil caution. Although perhaps it made this particular jump more dangerous, and the resulting successful landing more satisfying. There were two exits to this particular area, each accessible from both sides of the river. I could have taken the one on the right. However, I disliked the right side of the river. There was a garden of flowers, however I had never been particularly interested in flowers. These seemed dull, little red roses which looked slightly wilted, sunflowers with shrunken heads and others I could not care to name, bland and unsatisfying colours which gave off no particular smell and seemed forgotten. And so, I jumped once again to my left. The short burst of adrenaline was enough to make me feel as though I could do anything.


When I reached the bridge, there were three options available to me. The first was to go left. This would lead me on to the main road, which in this weather seemed like an unattractive choice. The second would lead me straight on through the park. This was the path I usually took. But the path to the right would lead me to a forest. The sun was high up, and so it would be illuminated in clear light, and the warm weather meant that I wouldn’t be too cold. And so for once, I decided to turn right. 


The singing of the birds was another reason I missed the forest. The most common pattern was that of the great tit, with its repeating patterns of the same note, or of a combination of a lower note and a higher note. The gabble of the chaffinch was also a constant reminder of summer. It seemed to belong to another world, without worries or problems. I could imagine why, in the depictions of heaven as a green garden with the bursting colours of red, green and yellow of flowers, one would hear reassuring sounds such as these. 


As I was walking through the forest, I found myself being watched by a squirrel. It was a fat and awkward creature, its tail clutched against its body. It was clinging to the base of the tree, and its silly face and almond eyes were focused on my chest with a vacant expression. I had always been fond of squirrels, their quick speed and ability to move up the tree within seconds. And, of course, their indescribably adorable expressions. Perhaps it was simply compassion that moved me to like the smallness of their noses or their paws. In any case, I was compelled to walk towards the squirrel in slow steps. The squirrel was located some ten metres away, and for the first few metres, as always, it seemed to be allowing me to close the distance. I longed to glide a finger between those small ears and down the curious, shell-shaped back. However, as usual, the hope turned out to be a false one. The squirrel was gone when I was within a few feet, disappearing amongst the branches of the oak tree. Where it had been, I noticed a curious object emerging from the soil. A triangle of an object jutted out, barely visible amongst the soil. It had been buried there some time, but I immediately recognised it as a book. It was caked in dried soil, and it took me a few minutes to prise it free from the clutches of the earth and to scrape some of the clay aside. The book was black, about the size of my palm. I prised it open, careful not to damage the pages. I can tell from their yellow tint that they are old. After a minute or so of scrubbing, I managed to reach the first page. I must have looked an odd sight, a figure crouched under a tree wiping mud from a book, however nobody was there save the birds. I approached a nearby bench and sat down, before beginning to read:


November 4th, 1940

Dearest Grace, 

I hope you have managed to find this book successfully, as per the instructions in the letter I have left under your pillow. 

I’ll be brief, given time is pressing on me and I am afraid of being caught. I’m sorry to break this to you in such a manner, but grandpa Tom is dead. It was a bomb that did it, late afternoon during another air raid. Grandma told me. It was an awful sight, I am glad you weren’t there to see it.

I am worried that my father will find out. Ever since their mother was killed he’s been getting drunk, spending all of his money in the bar and demanding more from his parents. Who knows what he would do to get his hands on the £14,000 that poor Tom has left behind.

I have left you the letter upon which the location of this tree, so hopefully only you should be able to find it. In either case, you should hurry. This money is the chance of a new life for us. Perhaps once this ghastly war is over, we will be able to visit the world, America, France, just the two of us. It’s the least I can do for my younger sister. I’ve missed you so much… 

I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten. As for the money, I have buried it. I trust nobody with it except for you. Do you know the Lyttelton Playing fields? I have hidden the money three paces from the bearded tree, the one we used to play in as children. It’s not buried too deep, it’s in a suitcase just below the surface. If you don’t find it, not to worry. I will join you very soon.

I’m very sorry that the only news I have delivered to you in the last few days has been so negative. But don’t worry. We have the rest of our lives to make it right. 

Your dearest sister who loves you very much, 

Kat

PS. When you’ve found the book, please get rid of it. Do it discreetly. No one must know.


I found myself moved and puzzled by the strange contents of the book. Perhaps it was simply a joke. Unable to resist myself, I lifted the book to my face and smelled it. It smelled like earth and musk. Father’s shovel. My father was very proud of the garden he had started in the back yard. It would not be too difficult to take it.


As I returned to the house, I asked myself why I was doing this. The heat would soon start to become unbearable for the heat, and yet I was filled with a sense of purpose. Perhaps it was a prank, a child long ago desperate for entertainment. Yet I didn’t think so. Perhaps it was premonition. Or maybe it was the desire for a conclusion, a sense of finality. I knew the tree of which Kat had mentioned. It was located not far from here, resembling an old man with a large, curved nose that looked remarkably humanlike. The base of the tree had what looked like a tumour, or simply a large growth. The tree was an oak tree, with a powerfully thick trunk. It was fitting that it had resembled an old man since it had lived for a few hundred years and was an attraction here. It was surprising that it had remained the same for so long if the message had been genuine.


Shovel in hand, I begin the arduous process of digging. The first few shovelfuls are the hardest. That’s where I have to break the hard crust which has been baked by the sun. After a quarter of an hour, it has become easier, with the earth becoming easier to shift. But I am tired. I am beginning to sweat and people are staring as they run past, filling me with shame. I am about to give up when my shovel strikes something hard. My heart patters lightly in excitement as my breathing quickens. I force myself to take it slow, to not damage whatever is inside. 


A few hours later, I have gradually managed to prise the briefcase free. It is old, made of soft, warm leather. Everything else is forgotten. I reach forward and unclasp the metal hinges, pausing in wonder before raising the lid. Twenty thousand pounds. All in stacks of fifty-pound notes. ‘London, 14th January 1939’.


My breath held in my throat. It came out shakily. Yet I felt an impatient gaze which I could ignore. I turned around to find an old lady, her cheeks heavily wrinkled with jowls at her chin. Her hair was a silvery grey, and her light blue eyes twinkled in amusement. 

‘Grace?’, I asked.

‘You found it as well, have you?. Well, congratulations. I was wondering how long it would take’. I tried to offer it to her but she refused it with a gentle shaking of the head. ‘Keep it, please. My sister, Kat, died just before I read the letter. I could never bring myself to use it. I visit this place still… Just to remind me of her. Do what you want with it. Perhaps it will give you the kind of happiness I could never get’. I glanced down at the money, hiding my choked up expression. When I turned around again she was gone, as if she had never existed.