Well, needs must.
Hefting up the sledgehammer, Jim mounted the ladder once more and, checking Erin had disappeared back into the lounge, sucked in a breath before slamming the flat wedge of metal into a new portion of false-ceiling. Dust flew everywhere and the plasterboard shuddered, cracks spreading outward like snaking cobwebs, splitting apart and crumpling in on itself until finally collapsing to the floor with a creaking groan.
Only one crack split further than Jim had anticipated, shooting into the section directly above his head and widening with a snap! before he had a chance to react. Unable to do anything more than fling his free arm over his head and face, pushing his weight forward to try and retain his balance on the ladder, Jim hunched his shoulders protectively as a huge chunk of crumbling plasterboard crashed down on top him, splintering apart as it struck against him in a shower of powdered grit, bits fluttering to the ground.
Then something massive and metal smacked against the top of his head, hard enough to shoot sparks through the dust in front of his eyes. He heard whatever it was clang against the floor, then silence as the plasterboard storm quelled.
‘Son of a – ’
‘Oh my God, Jim! Jim?' Erin's voice was wavery. 'Are you okay?’
For a second, Jim wasn’t sure. Please God not a second concussion; his arm had only just recovered too, for the love of... Then he slowly raised his head, running a hand along the back of his skull, fingertips probing through his hair. He drew them back and didn’t see anything concerning – no blood, no jagged bits of metal or glass or whatever the hell it was that had struck him; there was only dust, and lots of it.
Still a little dizzy, he descended the ladder to where Erin was waiting anxiously, ignoring his warnings about the room. Jim ran his hand over his hair again to try and dislodge more of the dirt. As soon as he reached the bottom, Erin threw her arms around him, the twins’ bump pressing against him too, as if trying to join in the shaky embrace.
‘Don’t worry, I’m fine,’ Jim reassured her, kissing the top of her head and drawing back. He leant the sledgehammer against the wall and looked around for the fallen object, adding with a small smile, ‘Well, that’s was an adventure, wasn’t it?’
‘What the hell was it that fell?’
‘No idea... Here,’ Jim located his mysterious assailant, half-perched and half-buried amidst the mound of plasterboard rubble. Crouching down, he freed it and turned it over, pausing in surprise as he held it up to Erin.
It was a biscuit tin – one of those old-fashioned ones, made out of metal with a hinged lid and garishly painted patterns engraved into the lid and sides. The name of the company, Walkers, was printed across the top and there was a huge picture set against a red tartan background, which had faded over time. The design took up most of the lid and depicted a man in a traditional Scottish kilt and sporran kissing a well-dressed, Victorian lady’s hand. The slightly surreal words, Pure Butter Shortbread Rounds – Net Wt 500g, curved and looped beneath the border, with a little picture of a plate of biscuits in the bottom corner neatly summarising the whole thing. Jim reckoned it must have been from around the 1970s; he remembered his grandparents having a similar sort of thing when he was a child...
But it was bizarre.
‘Why the hell would someone plaster a biscuit tin into a false-ceiling?’ He mused aloud. Erin was still staring at it, the same level of confusion written across her face. ‘It must have been the old guy who lived here before – you can’t just accidentally plaster something as bulky as this in without noticing...’
Jim weighed it in his hand; it was alarmingly heavy.
‘There’s something inside.’
Erin arched an eyebrow.
‘Hopefully not the original shortbread biscuits?’
Exhaling a laugh, Jim shifted the biscuit tin into the crook of one arm and prised his fingers under the rusted lip of the lid. After a couple of squeaking tries, it slowly lifted – and Jim nearly dropped the whole thing in shock.
Inside, carefully wadded together in small piles and balanced on their sides, were sheaves of old-fashioned bank notes. Holding his breath, Jim ran a finger across one of the bundles looped up with string, peeling them back in flip-book flickers to reveal the Queen’s face staring regally up at them against a backdrop of faded purple. It was a small horde of ex-circulation, British sterling £20 notes.
‘Oh my God,’ Erin breathed, dark eyes wide. ‘There... There must be hundreds in there...’
‘Try thousands... Tens of thousands, Erin!’ Jim was still reeling with disbelief. He tilted his head up to the demolished ceiling. ‘Christ – I guess the old guy knew what he was doing after all.’
‘But... Is it – I mean, do we have to report this, or...?’
Jim stared at her, a slow smile spreading across his face.
‘Erin, we’ve lived in this flat for eight years – no one’s coming back for this. No one even knew it was there! I think... I mean, of course we’ll check, I’ll ring the British Treasury if I have to but – I think it’s ours, love.”
Amazed, Erin started laughing, her hands pressed against her stomach, the babies sharing in the excitement as she threw her arms around her husband, the chaos of the room dispelled in their astonished, electrified happiness. Jim hugged her back, the precious, fateful gift of the biscuit tin cradled between them in sudden anticipation of their future together – and with the twins.
Tens of thousands.
Jim drew in a deep breath.
He knew he would remember this day forever – because finally, their luck was changing.
...Three Weeks Later...
'Good morning, Mr King; this is Nadia Dawson from the bank, calling to speak to you about the results of our meeting last Wednesday...'
Swallowing the last of his morning cup of tea, Jim stood before the wide double-window of their flat and gazed calmly out at the sunshine peppering through the clouds, a light breeze rustling the leaves of the trees far below. He could see the 'For Sale' sign outside the entrance shuddering slightly in the slipstream, but for the first time, Jim didn't feel a spasm of anxiety at the reminder.
'I'm very happy to tell you that, given your recent... good fortune... we have been able to fully approve the status of your loan...'
Of course you are, he thought with a sharp smile, glancing briefly at the machine as though Nadia Dawson might see his cynical expression and lose her syrupy tones. The Bank of England confirmed that the money wasn't counterfeit and we're being given just under twenty grand - of course you've decided to fully approve the status of our loan...
It had certainly been amusing the day Jim and Erin had gone into their local branch, biscuit tin clutched proprietarily, to find out what the procedure was in reporting a small goldmine of ex-circulation banknotes. Ironically unable to speak to Nadia Dawson, the young cashier they dealt with instead had almost goggled his eyes out of his head when they presented him with their precious Walkers Pure Butter Shortbread tin.
Apparently, their banknotes were almost as old as the tin; the figure imprinted on the back was William Shakespeare, which – according to the Bank of England representative the young cashier spoke to over the phone –had first been issued in 1970. And, apparently, genuine Bank of England banknotes that have been withdrawn from circulation retain their face value for all time, exchangeable at the Bank of England in London.
So, two days later, Jim had hopped a train, the precious tin stowed deep amongst a padded mass of haphazardly chosen t-shirts and socks inside a rucksack, which he had clung to like a dying limpet, until he finally walked in through the imposing doors of the grey-stone building on Threadneedle Street.
Unlike their local branch, the Bank of England tellers barely even batted an eyelid as Jim presented the treasure trove of crumpled notes.
Ten working days after that, their battered bank account had been credited with a windfall that they could never have imagined, not even in their wildest dreams.
 
; Dreams that were finally coming true.
'We would like to extend to you and Mrs King our full variable mortgage rate,' Nadia Dawson warbled on and Jim turned to face the phone fully, hands deeply entrenched in his pockets to stop himself from snatching up the receiver and crowing triumphantly across Miss Dawson's honeyed tones. 'And we would like to hear from you as soon as possible, to arrange one more meeting in order to finalise all the details. I wish you luck in your house-hunting, Mr King, and we look forward to hearing from you...'
Jim's stifled smile broke into a grin as she finally clicked off; they didn't need luck in their house-hunting anymore, not since the biscuit tin had literally fallen into their laps, sprinkled in plasterboard dust rather than fairy dust, but somehow still just as effective.
Twenty thousand pounds...
Their deposit. The fifteen grand they'd spent the years scrimping and saving could go towards the twins, just like it ought to, but without sacrificing the dream home they so deserved as a family. Jim surveyed the flat that they could now afford to leave on the market for a while, shaking his head in an almost euphoric disbelief.
Twenty grand hidden in the ceiling all this time.
Crazy old fool had known what he was doing all along.
Erin appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a bright red maternity cardigan; she looked less tired these days, instead glowing with a happy spark that warmed Jim's heart every time he caught her eye. Crossing to join him, Erin's arms slid around her husband's waist, the twins muscling in beneath the growing curve of their bump as usual, and they smiled at one another, contentedly exultant.
They'd spent hours over the past couple of weeks debating why the old man had stowed the money behind a fake ceiling – stolen cash? An odd insurance policy? A squirreled-away pension? Maybe even a bitter attempt at screwing over his remaining family?
Who knew...?
All that Jim could really be sure of was that the guy had definitely known what he was doing when he whacked that plasterboard into place; that – and the fact that, whether insane or eccentric, he, Erin and the twins would be indebted to him forever.
As if reading his thoughts, Erin glanced towards the mantle-piece, where the Walkers tin was propped in all its metallic tartan splendour. It was empty now, of course, but they couldn't get rid of it – how on earth would they?
It was their future, finally sitting before their eyes - the game-changer, more blessed than a four-leaf clover. From the moment they'd discovered it, they'd discovered their luck too. Or perhaps, like the biscuit tin, they’d had it all along and just never realised.
Either way, that tin reflected their perfect day out of its shiny surface –
And the start of their perfect future.
Impossibly Lucky
It was safe to say that Alice was unlucky.
Regardless of what people said about 'superstition', about paranoia and obsessive cases of 'looking over the shoulder', Alice was, by the by, unlucky.
It wasn't as though she had done anything to merit that. Perhaps if you asked her, she would shrug modestly, and murmur something about the mirror she broke when she was twelve; although that wouldn't merit a lifetime of bad luck.
If ever Alice was running late, so was the bus.
If ever she was sent on a coffee run, the cups would leak.
The heavens were prone to open when she stepped out of the house. She was often ill on her birthday, and once decided to pull out of her lottery syndicate, only for the numbers to come up on that very week.
It was safe to say that Alice was unlucky.
On one particularly overcast Monday, she waited at the end of the queue in a local coffee shop, looking out of the window mournfully at the gathering black clouds. They crept in, like balls of dust blown about by an invisible vacuum cleaner, and Alice sighed.
The door to the shop opened, and cold air blew in. The next moment, a startlingly cold wetness splashed against the back of her legs. She turned sharply, holding onto the list of orders from the office - which had blown away more than once on her way down there - and regarded the man facing her. He stared back with apologetic eyes and impossibly messy hair that stood at all angles, more or less defying gravity. He shook out the rest of his umbrella, this time away from Alice’s legs.
‘Hey, sorry about that. The rain gets in everywhere.’ His cheeks were flushed like fallen autumn apples, and there was something roguish and unpredictable about his smile that Alice couldn’t place her finger on. She waved a dismissive hand.
‘That’s Britain for you.’ She nodded to herself, and then turned back to the counter, ready to order her coffees.
Five minutes later she bustled out with them in hand; cups tipping and bouncing in their holders, but - surprisingly - not leaking or spilling.
Rain began to come down in heavy, fat drops as Alice stepped outside, and she hunched against it. Her umbrella lay forgotten in the cupboard under the stairs back home, and she sighed; of course. Icy wet fingers trailed down her bare neck and arms as she set off - until they abruptly stopped, a mere moment later.
‘What right minded British person leaves the house without an umbrella?’
There he was again, impossible hair and eyes and… umbrella. Alice blinked up at her new shelter, and shifted awkwardly.
‘You’re assuming I’m in my right mind,’ she pointed out with a soft laugh. Impossible looked amused, and nodded to the busy street ahead.
‘Well, regardless, I think drenching you with my umbrella back there means I have to keep you dry now,’ he shrugged, and the hand that clutched the umbrella brushed Alice’s goose bumped arm. She agreed, and together they braved the rain.
The walk back wasn’t all nervous laughter and awkward conversation about the state of the weather. In fact, as step after step was taken in tandem and less raindrops fell, the conversation only deepened.
Alice found herself setting the scene of her life: of late nights studying English Literature for the Open University, and early rises for her job at the P.R firm. Impossible said surprisingly little about himself; even when prompted, and like most first meetings, names didn’t come into question. The only things Alice learnt were that Impossible worked in the coffee shop on and off, and helped people in his spare time. Therapy work, charity work, he wouldn’t specify, but their lifestyles gelled and bounced off one another.
Alice’s office block had a primarily glass front with sleek sliding doors at its mouth. It bore quite the contrast to the slightly haphazard woman and her strange companion beneath the umbrella, reflected in its polished surface.
‘Well, thanks for the help,’ Alice grinned up at Impossible, and she stepped out of the safety of the shelter, beneath the dissipating storm clouds. She hadn’t noticed that it wasn’t raining anymore, or that her coffee stayed put inside their cups.
‘Pleasure,’ Impossible smiled back and passed Alice the other four cups, snug in their holder. Their fingers brushed as she took them.
Alice nodded – not entirely sure what else to say – and she stepped up to the side of the road. To her left, a sports car revved towards her, and the rather unfortunately large pool of water by the curb. The wheels hit the puddle, kicking up a fountain that narrowly missed Alice. She hadn’t made the effort to dodge it, but today marked a first. She balanced the coffee, swore at the retreating vehicle, and glanced back to see the already distant figure of Impossible and his umbrella.
Of course, she had forgotten to ask his name.
*
The day slid by, slowed down by the constant threat of more rain, and Alice found herself morosely photocopying sheets, drinking copious amounts of tea, and occasionally thinking about Impossible.
Sunlight streamed through the clouds when he crossed her mind, or perhaps, that was something she had imagined, to befit the happy train of thought.
The bus chose not to wait for her as she left the office. The driver was like most; dead inside. A bedraggled young
woman hurrying up the street was nothing when the bus was ten seconds behind schedule; not that buses were ever on time, anyway.
As the metal cage of commuters pulled away, a black cab slowed to a halt in its wake, and out of it… stepped Impossible.
Alice let out a low chuckle of amusement; her stomach did something akin to butterflies, and she smiled.
‘I’d make a joke about you following me, but would that be too forward?’
‘Nothing like that,’ he replied with a nervous chuckle. ‘It’s just that all that coffee you were carrying earlier really made me crave a cup. Fancy it?’ His eyes flashed, and again Alice got the sense that there was something mischievous and a bit brilliant behind them. She laughed and nodded, her cheeks flushing a delightful shade of magenta, and together they walked back down the street, up the way they came.
Along the way, Alice was reminded of Autumn walks with her first boyfriend, and then of hot chocolate in the kitchen after playing in leaves. The tint of auburn in Impossible’s hair was set off by the autumnal colours of the occasional urban tree, and they both laughed when red and orange leaves fell and tangled in Alice’s wild brown curls.
‘Suits you,’ Impossible joked as he twisted them free, dropping them to the pavement, where excitable pigeons gathered in hope of food.
In the coffee shop, they talked of hobbies. Alice told stories with great enthusiasm of when she had visited Wimbledon to see Murray against Federer, and equally, those tickets she had blagged for the Paralympic football. A lot of the central tube line had been down on the first visit, and Alice had very nearly missed the start of the game. It was typical, really, of her. Of unlucky pitfalls and knock backs, that never sullied her life, but made a mockery of it.