It was a year since we had entered into our first mortgage. It followed finding and falling in love with the old farmhouse, its hundred hectares of grazing land, and four dozen cattle.
In preparation for a new family member’s arrival, it was time to tackle the shed, to explore where the sun never shone, its dark, dusty corners, and its pile of old boxes and crates. We also needed space to transfer some of our own superfluous junk.
The Agent had explained that the pensioners had died at the property, the coroner eventually determining it had been a murder/suicide. Adult children had come and cleared away furnishings and personal effects, while the neighbours agreed to mind the livestock until new owners were installed.
Over the years, the spiders, dust and grime had created a webbed blanket over that corner of the shed where the old boxes were stacked. It was over a year since we arrived but a rip in the web suggested somebody’s interference. I dragged a couple of heavy trunks onto the floor.
The first had old account books, receipts, tax returns, and business papers to do with the farm, dating back over the past half-century. Similar business papers covered the top of the second chest, but scuff marks across the dusty top layer suggested that the papers had been handled not too long ago.
I rummaged deeper. ‘Julius Marlowe – your shoes of distinction’, read the box. It was spotless and tied with red and green Christmas ribbons; totally out of sync with the rest of the stuff in the trunk. I lifted the surprisingly heavy box out of the crate, walking back towards the kitchen for a sharp knife.
There was some excitement as I lifted the cardboard lid but disappointment followed, as I saw more old papers. Julie waddled into the kitchen and came over to the table. “What have you discovered?” as she peered over my shoulder at the papers.
Storytellers often talk about ‘eye-popping’ astonishment. That’s what happened as the veneer of paperwork came away revealing neatly bundled stacks of $20 notes – hundreds of them! “What the …, My God, there must be tens of thousands of dollars here!” Questions flew between us. “Who put them there? How did they get there? Whom do they belong to?” “Is it finders, keepers?” “What do we do?” “Should we notify the cops?”
Strong black tea for me, while Julie had a cup of hot water. I mentioned the recent disturbance in the shed, and we decided to put the box back where we found it. I replaced the trunks onto the stack in the corner. I even carefully swept up a little dust and threw it over the crates.
We waited. Alice was born four weeks later. Neither of us forgot about the box but new responsibilities pushed the treasure a little further from our routine consciousness.
A year passed. Julie, Alice and I revisited the trunk. The shoebox had gone!