Surprise, Surprise

SURPRISE, SURPRISE

Have you ever dreamed about a distant relative who leaves you a fortune upon passing? I have, several times in fact, but when it happened it came as a complete surprise and –in an ironic twist- I now wish I had never heard about my great aunt.
I almost fell off my chair when a gentleman from South Africa with an official voice phoned to inform me that a Hester Chill had left everything to me after her death. For the immense estate to be handed over I was to appear in person in Johannesburg during the next couple of weeks. At first I was convinced that someone tried one of those famous banana republic scams on me whereby they trick you into believing that you inherited millions and when you want to collect the unexpected fortune a Nigerian gang robs you of all your belongings upon arrival. My genealogy, however, revealed that indeed one of my late grandmother’s brothers –Robert Chill- had immigrated to South Africa in the 1930s, straight after graduation. Only much later, when it was too late, did I realize that the plot was far more elaborate and had to do with revenge rather than robbery.
Frankly, at that early stage, I was thrilled to be at the receiving end of things. For a second or two I was wondering why Hester had chosen me, a person she had never met, but did it really matter?
A few days later I flew to Johannesburg with Nationwide, a South African low budget airline because, I have to admit, I was on my last penny with all credit limits stretched to the max. Not that I did not have a decent job, in the contrary, as a senior executive at a leading London investment bank I was entitled to a generous salary and even better bonuses. But as sort of a professional hazard, I was heavily involved in the stock market, options to be precise, when the global financial markets collapsed within a couple of weeks earlier this year. The daily margin calls had turned out to be a nightmare and had entirely eaten up my reserves, including my enormous overdraft.
I can’t even remember how I managed to get leave seeing that I was in the middle of salvaging an important deal on behalf of one of our clients and was actually supposed to fly to Dubai instead of Johannesburg but somehow I was able to convince the frowning decision makers that my assistant was equally capable of handling the more than delicate matter. That was my first mistake.
At the airport in Johannesburg I reluctantly climbed into a rickety, filthy old taxi and in retrospect, this was sort of an overture to what was still to come. Hours later, exhausted and sweaty, I arrived at the executor’s address. An elderly gentleman showed me to an office in a converted garage. He was retired, just attending to some business for old clients, he explained when he saw my puzzled look and briefly mentioned the facts: a large property in the North of Johannesburg, lots of very valuable loose assets, but apparently no cash or life insurance, would be mine. I was certainly impressed and immediately added a few items to my imaginary shopping list, that slick German sports car with leather everything, for example. The official process would take a while, he added. Until today I am at a loss why I had not asked him more questions about the estate or my great aunt, which turned out to be my second mistake.
“How long?” Was all I wanted to know counting my last coins.
“No longer than three weeks assuming that you brought along all the certificates I told you.”
“Yes, yes, but in the meantime, can’t I stay in my aunt’s house until everything is settled?” I asked impatiently.
Hesitating, he replied slowly, stressing every word: “I don’t see why not. And before I forget, here are some documents which you may find useful,” handing over a thick envelope
Oh boy, three weeks. How could I possibly explain the delay to my boss? Literally on my last buck I arrived at an imposing looking property with very high walls and a security camera in full view at the gate. And then I entered an English country estate: the wide driveway up to the double story house in Tudor style was cobble paved and lined with standard white roses in full bloom. The immaculately manicured garden with old oak trees had a huge swimming pool at the back. Exquisite! Quickly brushing my initial suspicion aside why Hester had lived by herself on such an expansive property, I added another couple of fancy gadgets to my shopping list. The housekeeper Gloria welcomed me with a big smile, and after having settled in Hester’s private quarters, I went for a walk in the house to inspect all the nice goodies. Should I take a few interesting looking items home, like the Royal Doulton dinner service with monogram? Or should I rather sell it lock, stock and barrel, perhaps even advertise it as a property with guesthouse potential? I was still generously adding to my shopping list when Gloria asked if I wanted to have something to eat -oh yes please, thank goodness that they had food at home-, spent the rest of the day strolling through my newly acquired wealth and also found the vehicles: a vintage Bentley and a new model eight seater VW van. I saw the need for the Bentley but what was the purpose of the van?
The next morning Gloria asked what was going to happen to the staff.
“All of you should look for new jobs. I want to sell the property and go back to London as soon as possible.”
“So, you are not going to stay and continue with the business?” Gloria looked at me questioningly.
Business? Nobody had informed me about a business, which would certainly complicate matters. Hester was in her late seventies when she died, childless, twenty years after Robert and I presumed that she was a wealthy pensioner. Why had she bothered to run a business? I felt incredibly stupid, decided not to show my ignorance and shrugged my shoulders. That was the third mistake I made because at that stage I would have been able to get out of the situation unscathed.
“We’ll see,” I replied instead and immediately phoned the executor who was unreachable.
During the next couple of days I made some kind of inventory, just for the expensive stuff of course –the paintings alone were worth millions -, checked Hester’s bank records, and admired her jewelery. She really had been an elegant old lady, which was confirmed by quite a few pictures in her photo albums. This was in fact the first time that I tried to remember what I knew about the family. Admittedly, it was not much, but then again, South Africa was far away, physically and emotionally.
After I phoned my mother in vain to find out more, I watched TV to see in the news that the entire Nationwide fleet had been grounded because one of their planes was forced to an emergency landing in Durban after an engine had fallen off during take-off.
I was horrified. What would happen to my flight back to London? Would they be operational again soon? If so, would it be safe to fly? And if not, would we be transferred to another airline hopefully without paying? I phoned the call center but it just rang; not even an automated announcement that the airline would publish an official statement at a later stage was recorded. The days went past without any resolution on the matter. The airline claimed that it was an isolated incident and the aviation authority refused the reinstate the license before all planes had been thoroughly checked which could take a long time, they said.
Meanwhile I tried to get estate agents out to value the property and give me an indication how long it would take to sell it. To my utter surprise, none of them was particularly interested until one lady mentioned that the location was unattractive.
“Why is the location a problem? As far as I can see it is in a very upmarket area.”
“Oh dear, you are not from here, are you?”
“No, I inherited the property and I am from London.”
“Can I suggest that you peep over the wall at the back?” she said under her breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have a squatter camp in the back yard. You will never be able to sell it.”
After having climbed up a ladder, I was horrified for the second time within a couple of days. Thousands of corrugated iron shacks as far as I could see, and some were already dangerously close to my property. No wonder that Hester had Fort Knox security. Gloria mentioned that it had only started some five or six years ago after the Johannesburg council had bought a farm on the opposite side of the valley for the resettlement of people from other areas. Had there not been a resistance from the residents, I asked, incredulous. Of course, but by the time the court sat over it, it was too late and the settlement had grown well beyond its original borders. Realistically, it was impossible to get rid of them.
When I poured myself a double whisky and crossed off a few items from my imaginary shopping list, the telephone rang. The executor wanted to know why I had phoned.
“In fact, there are now a couple of crucial questions. First of all, why have you not mentioned that I live next door to a squatter camp? Secondly, I believe that Hester ran a business from the premises.”
After a short silence, he cleared his throat and said apologetically:
”Well, the informal settlement is still being debated in court, and for me as executor it is irrelevant where the property is located. Secondly, there was no registered business but … ehm…I am aware that Hester had a lot of visitors, if you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t,” I retorted, raising my voice.
“There were rumors that she ran a strip club, very discreet though.”
“You got to be joking. She was seventy-eight.”
“So what!” was his short reply.
Now, of course, a lot of things made sense. The big car park at the back, all bedrooms on the second floor had luxurious en-suite bathrooms, the lavish entertainment area and ultimately Hester’s wealth. All of a sudden it clicked. A strip club was typically a cash business! Where had she hidden the money seeing that there was nothing in her bank account?
At this stage I should have run away with Hester’s jewelery but instead I made a mental list of sensible hiding places and was convinced that it was just a matter of a few hours before I would find the loot. The envelope! Where was the envelope? Surely she left me information how to access the money. After I pulled it out of the side pocket of my suitcase, the phone rang again. My mother.
“So, what’s it like in South Africa?”
“Good, good. Tell me, what do you know about aunt Hester?”
“Not much. The whole family was tight-lipped about Robert and his wife because they ran a brothel. Can you believe it, with his engineering degree he opened up a bar in a country where gold and diamonds were the order of the day. And then he married that young barmaid. I understand that granny did not want to have anything to do with her brother.” Her high-pitched voice was piercing my eardrum.
“Is this the reason why we never heard from them?”
“Well, Robert and his brothers had been at loggerheads about the family business and eventually Robert was kicked out without compensation. That is why he emigrated to try his luck somewhere else. I have absolutely no idea why Hester left you her entire estate. Have you found out yet how much it’s worth? You would certainly need the money, wouldn’t you?”
“I am still establishing all the facts but so far so good.” Under no circumstances would I share my predicament with her or admit that I was terribly short of cash. The next fat pay cheque would come soon, or so I thought.
The midday news were full of shocking economic reports including one about my employer, Beachman Brothers, which had approached the British government for a sizable rescue package. I couldn’t believe my ears and immediately phoned my boss but his secretary told me with a weepy voice that he was still in emergency meetings and that it did not look good. Beachman Brothers was an investment bank, you see, we did not take deposits from the man in the street which needed to be protected by the government.
Feeling numb, I sat down and took stock: a mansion I couldn’t sell, squatters in the backyard, a worthless plane ticket, employer gone belly up and ... no money! How much lower could I possibly sink?
As I was soon to find out, much, much lower. While I was still paralyzed by the continuing onslaught of devastating news I heard a commotion in the front yard.
When I opened the door, I stared at an assembly of police and plain clothed government officials, waving their credentials at me.
“We have a court order to seize the property and all movable assets on behalf of the South African Revenue Service on suspicion of income tax fraud and the fact that the assets were bought with illegally acquired funds,” one of them shouted.
Within a couple of hours the house was empty, and they asked me to vacate the premises within forty-eight hours. Why had I not thought about it earlier? The strip club, obviously. Hester had never declared any income from it and it all blew up when the executor –quite innocently- reported the assets for estate duty purposes. Still clutching the envelope I sat down on the staircase and absentmindedly pulled various documents out, hoping to discover a treasure hunt map but instead, found another, smaller envelope, which was addressed to me personally. Frowning, I ripped it open and in an old-fashioned handwriting it read:
“Dear Sarah,
Surprise, surprise! And you thought you were so close, didn’t you? How does it feel, being stranded in a foreign country with absolutely nothing? Unlike you, I did my homework and was sure that you would fall for it. And don’t bother, there is no money, I spent it all!
Very special regards also to the rest of the family from Hester and of course Robert.”