Dear Beneficiary Page 3

  The classes were held at the school all my children had attended, just two miles away from home. The physical journey of going back into the hall where I’d witnessed numerous renditions of traditional Christmas carols, musical concerts involving Jonjo’s enthusiastic but painful violin solos, various children’s prize-givings and parents’ evenings was difficult. I felt like an amateur athlete who, having run a full marathon was being told they have to go back to mile 15 and do the last 11.2 miles again.

  I overcame any initial desire to run away when I spotted Darius. I wondered how I might get to know him. I couldn’t help but look at his thigh muscles, which were huge. I didn’t for a minute think he’d got his clothes from Burton’s, as his appearance suggested something far more sophisticated, and I doubted very much they would do his size.

  I’d looked over and tried to catch his attention by smiling every time I thought he might look my way. He sat on the edge of his seat, using his substantial legs to keep his balance as he looked at a leaflet on ‘Parking for the Elderly’. His hands were huge, as were his feet. I could see the bare skin of his ankles above his dark grey socks and wondered what he might look like naked. The thought of it made me blush.

  The group leader handed round some forms, asking us to fill them in and, while doing so, to introduce ourselves to each other. At last I’d found my chance to make conversation.

  ‘Hello there. I’m Cynthia,’ I’d said, extending my right hand to meet his. Darius took his time responding, which had me worried for a bit, but then he stood straight up, took my hand and pulled it to him before kissing me lightly on both sides of my face.

  ‘Osezua, or Ozzy for short,’ he said.

  I thought I was going to faint.

  I didn’t like his real name and couldn’t pronounce the zed without crinkling up my lips, so I changed it to Darius. He didn’t seem to mind. He was really a very obliging partner in so many ways, even if some of the positions I encountered played havoc with my weak wrists.

  Yes, I’ve a few failings I can put down to age. I forget the names of my grandchildren and where I’ve put my glasses – but doesn’t everyone?

  But the excitement, the connection, the sheer physicality of what I had with my young lover brought me benefits, as well as some welcome challenges. He introduced me to things that would have made Colin’s hair curl… if he’d had any.

  I would often think how easily Darius accommodated my needs and how often I felt myself thinking about him for no reason. He was so very stimulating.

  ‘That’s better,’ I remembered telling Darius after he’d adopted a more sensible approach following my complaints about my sacroiliac joint not being as flexible as it might be. He’d reverted to what I think is called the missionary position, although goodness knows why. I didn’t think missionaries had sex, and if so does being on one’s back make it more godly?

  I couldn’t help but think back to our time together as a colourful display against an otherwise bleak background of mundanity. It was an oasis from which I could drink pure pleasure in an otherwise dry and dusty life, one I only realised was dull in hindsight.

  So when the email from Nigeria came through, I couldn’t believe he’d been thinking of me all that time. I read it again and knew this was a message that had something to do with my former lover – and that he wanted assistance in obtaining a large sum of money, some of which would be made available to me.

  He’d previously explained that his family had needed his help and that the authorities were difficult to deal with. He also told me Nigeria was full of legal and administrative corruption. We’d discussed the poverty of his country and the greedy destruction of its leaders on many occasions, so this is what it was all about. Bringing the matter to my attention means he will be able to get the funds for his family’s medical treatment and I will also benefit by getting a commission for helping him out. A perfect solution.

  Of course I will help him, I thought. If it is just a matter of using my bank account to liberate what is his, then I will offer him what I can.

  It was only natural to start thinking of the financial rewards. I’d be able to help the family. Maybe pay off the children’s mortgages and help send the grandchildren to university. Colin’s legacy wasn’t enough for that by any stretch, so this could be a real godsend. Better than winning the lottery, although the thought of seeing Darius again would be reward enough.

  I fished around in my desk drawer to find my cheque book and entered the details of my account carefully into a blank email message, to ensure no mistakes. I wrote a quick reply, taking care not to make any assumptions.

  My Dear Darius,

  It is so lovely to hear from you. I did often wonder why you never contacted me after our last meeting but I understand this is because you had many pressing matters to attend to, about which I’m very sorry to hear. Please find within this message my bank details. You are free to use these at your will to sort out your problems and I look forward to seeing you. Hearing from you has reminded me how much I miss our talks and your company.

  I signed off and pressed the ‘send’ button, albeit with some difficulty as that mouse thing still had a mind of its own, and clapped my hands to my chest with glee. I spent the next few hours planning, on paper, what I could do with my share of the funds.

  I’d worked out that three million dollars was around two million pounds; a significant amount even for someone who had already benefitted quite considerably from their husband’s sensible insurance planning.

  Of course I’d help out the family, but that would still leave a significant sum to enhance what life I have left to me, which considering how I fare against others my age should be a reasonable one.

  ‘An adventure,’ I said to myself, while imagining how the bridge club folk would react to my good fortune.

  ‘Yes, I’m going to have a bloody good adventure,’ I muttered, before going back to my notebook and pen to continue to hypothetically divide my share of these unexpected funds between duty and my now expanding future.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I was trying to pull on a pair of tights when I heard the phone ringing. I’d been to the local baths for my regular forty lengths morning swim and was still damp from the shower. However hard I tried to put them on they would twist and turn to the point where I looked like I’d been in a bad accident as a child.

  My descent down the stairs to the hall was reminiscent of a Norman Wisdom film and it was only the banisters that saved me from crashing to the floor. I do sometimes think it could take weeks to be found if I ever ended up incapacitated for any reason. Maybe that’s why so many old women only wear trousers.

  Breathless, I picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello, Cynthia Hartworth.’

  ‘Is that Mrs Hartworth?’ said the voice at the other end.

  ‘I think you’ll find I just said it was,’ I replied. Don’t these people ever listen?

  ‘It’s your bank here,’ said the woman. ‘I just need to take you through security to ensure it’s you I’m speaking to.’

  ‘Of course it’s me you’re speaking to,’ I told the silly woman. I was hot and bothered and the tights were getting to me. I wanted her to hurry up.

  ‘I know, but we need to be sure. Could you give me your date of birth?’

  I sighed at that question. I was always told it was rude to ask a woman’s age but answered anyway.

  ‘Yes, it’s April 12th, 1952,’ I said.

  ‘And can you confirm the first line of your address and postcode?’

  ‘You should know all this, shouldn’t you? Why do you need me to tell you? – I’ve been banking with NatWest for over forty years,’ I replied.

  The voice on the other end sounded bored. Maybe they were used to such commentary, having to ask such ridiculous questions every day and thereby making themselves appear to be somewhat backward.

  ‘We just need to check your details with you, as anyone could answer your phone and it’s bank policy to go
through security questions only you will know.’

  I tried to hold the phone under my chin while wriggling the right leg of my tights into the correct position. The toe of the ten-denier raw mink nylons had been twisting around my ankle, to the point where the crotch was nearer my knees than the pant area.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, what do you want anyway?’

  I knew I was being rude but couldn’t help myself. I’d other things to think about, not least the fact I’d now pierced the offending tights with my right thumb and I’d only bought them the day before.

  The voice continued: ‘We have some concerns about your account. A considerable amount of money’s been transferred and we need to verify if that’s what you intended.’

  My thoughts were brought to attention. I’d largely put Darius’s email to the back of my mind. It had been a few days since I’d replied and I had guessed it would take some time to sort out the legal problems mentioned, so I hadn’t thought the cash would be transferred so quickly. My pulse quickened. Maybe this meant my reunion with him could be sooner than I’d hoped.

  ‘Oh, my goodness, has the money come through? I expect you want to give me advice on how to spend it!’ I quipped, quite childishly in hindsight, but the thrill of knowing things were starting to move had put me in an unusually frivolous mood.

  I jumped up and down on the spot, not so much out of excitement but because it gave me the right kind of purchase on the top of my tights to fight my way into them properly.

  ‘Actually it’s the other way round, Mrs Hartworth. Your account has been completely cleared of all funds – over ten thousand pounds, which, I should say, is rather a lot to have in a current account.’

  I stood still for a moment. I did recall the email saying there were complications of some kind. Maybe that’s what it was all about. There was undoubtedly a reasonable explanation.

  ‘Are you sure? I think you must be mistaking me for another Hartworth. My address is 15 Sycamore Close, Epsfield. The nice part.’

  ‘Those are the details we have, Mrs Hartworth, we don’t have anyone else of your name at this branch. We believe you have been the victim of a scam and our manager would like to see you. Could you come in to the branch this afternoon?’

  I’m not over-keen on seeing bank managers. Often they try and sell life insurance or pensions, neither of which I need. Colin always dealt with that side of things and took advice often when playing golf with Mr Gamble (I always thought that a strange name for a bank manager) and was no doubt persuaded that sound investment also required vast premiums, of which, I suspect, Mr Gamble took a healthy percentage. It was certainly enough to pay for membership of Epsfield Golf Club.

  I shouldn’t criticise his methods as it’s because of his tenacious attention to Colin’s worth after death that I’ve been doing as well as I have for money.

  So, not feeling in the slightest perturbed about what had happened, as this would all be part of the overall plan leading to the receipt of a large amount of money, I booked an appointment with Mr Gamble that afternoon.

  The car was in the drive and I knew I’d have to take it into town for the appointment. It didn’t ever occur to me to get buses or any type of public transport if I could avoid it. I always end up sitting with someone who has body odour, or is so fat they take up more seat than they have paid for. Or with a child eating something sticky.

  I was still cautious about driving on my own, but knew I’d have to drive to the bank so I could put them in their place. I couldn’t wait to see their faces when they realised I would be coming into so much money!

  It occurred to me I might need some proof and I took the opportunity to write another email to Darius, so he could confirm the situation. I’d been itching to get back in contact but knew that to appear too keen wasn’t an attractive trait. I’d learned enough about men to know that they like to do the chasing, although maybe he’d been playing it just a bit too cool by leaving me in the dark for months. However, I’d an urgent need to clear up the bank matter to get them off my back, so the reasons for making contact again were significant enough to override the rules of courtship.

  I’d two hours before leaving for town and wanted to keep myself busy to avoid all thought of road rage, traffic jams and the eternal issue of reverse parking. I couldn’t find the card with his address, so hit ‘reply’ to respond to the original mail.

  Dear Darius,

  I know it has only been a few days since you wrote asking for my help regarding the issue with your funds, and so I’m not expecting to hear from you just yet. However, my bank has informed me that all my money has been taken from my current account. I expect you needed it to pay for lawyers and such to organise the transfer but perhaps you could confirm so I can get the little Hitlers off my case. They are so small-minded they just don’t understand anything outside the boundaries of Surrey life! I’m very excited to hear from you and look forward to your response.

  I placed an ‘x’ at the bottom of the mail and wondered what letter I could put to signify more than a kiss.

  CHAPTER SIX

  The drive into town was problematic. Firstly, I’d lost my car keys. I scoured the house and three handbags before finally finding them inside the sugar jar. I couldn’t remember opening the jar, let alone placing the keys in it, but then Bobbie had said she does similar things all the time so I didn’t worry about it. It’s all part of having a busy and full life and I dismissed the thought of dementia quickly. But then it did occur to me that most thoughts get quickly dismissed with dementia …

  Once in the car I discovered the petrol gauge was lower than I’d hoped. I seem to have some kind of pathologic hatred of getting fuel. Colin said I would run the car on fumes rather than go and fill up, but then he was used to it with all the driving he did for work. And being a man helps.

  As if my fears were completely founded, it was only the quick wit of the petrol station manager that stopped me filling up with diesel. He ran over to the car and whipped the pump from my hands, spilling what was in the pipe over my shoes.

  ‘That could’ve cost you a bomb. Not to mention the inconvenience of sorting it out. It completely stuffs your engine, putting diesel in a petrol car,’ he said. Like I’m supposed to know that, I thought, as I wondered if the smell of diesel would remain as pungent as it did at that moment.

  ‘Well, how silly having the pumps next to each other,’ I said, after the hoody-eyed manager droned on at me about the complexities of having an engine drained while he filled up my car with unleaded.

  ‘Well, I won’t need to, will I, so no harm done – apart from my shoes, of course.’

  I was quite annoyed by his patronising attitude and also getting late for the appointment so I shoved forty pounds in cash into his hand and, without waiting for the two pounds change, sped out of the garage, only to narrowly avoid running down a mother and her two small children as they crossed the road at traffic lights.

  The woman gave me the sanctimonious look that only mothers can give when you’ve accidentally done something that might harm their precious child. The same sort of look that goes with people who have stickers stating: ‘Baby on board’. It’s like you would drive down the road looking specifically for the youngest people to have an accident with! I poked my tongue out at her and drove on, mounting the pavement to get out of her path while she shouted something unpleasant.

  I arrived at the bank eventually, having endured many hoots and hollers from a variety of other drivers, all seemingly in a great hurry to get about their business. They’ll have heart attacks carrying on like that, I thought. Better to arrive late than dead on time.

  It was quite annoying to find all the parking places had been taken. If they knew I was coming in you would think they’d have left a space. I got there with three minutes to spare. I left the Corsa on a double yellow line right outside the bank. After all, I wasn’t going to be very long and it was only three o’clock in the afternoon.

  A short, blond
e girl, who looked just about old enough to put her feet on the floor when she went to the toilet, showed me into the manager’s office. Mr Gamble, a bearded man with a look of tiredness running through everything he wore, looked up at me over the top of his thick-rimmed tortoiseshell glasses. He peered through the window at a commotion going on out in the street before he spoke.

  ‘Cynthia. How are you?’

  I got the impression he didn’t really care about the answer but gave the usual ‘Very well, thank you’ response without actually thinking about what I was saying. I was keener to get on to the issue of why it was his business to get involved with my dealings with Darius.

  ‘I think you should know that I’m entirely happy about the funds transfer your assistant rang me about and see no reason for this meeting,’ I said.

  ‘But it has gone to a Western Union account where the recipient cannot be traced, Cynthia. This is most irregular,’ said the manager, who was probably only in his fifties but looked like he had been waiting for retirement since his first promotion.

  ‘I’ve a good friend in Nigeria who is sorting everything out. He knows what he is doing, and once the complicated legal matters have been resolved I’ll be receiving considerable compensation for my assistance,’ I said.

  ‘These people in Nigeria are con men. They take your money and you never see it again. They spam people all over the world with emails, and some, like your good self, fall for it.’

  ‘Mr Gamble,’ I said pointedly as I stood up, wondering why my tights still weren’t straight. ‘Not only do I have a spam filter, but you need to know that my friend in Nigeria is also my lover. He’ll look after my interests, of that I’m sure.’

  Mr Gamble had started to twitch and his right eye was closing involuntarily. I seemed to have shut him up with my declaration. He opened and shut his mouth twice before shaking his head side to side and agreeing with me that what I did with my money was my business. I suspect he thought that being a woman who’d relied on my husband’s money I should be more circumspect with my spending, in Colin’s memory.