Overview: True Southend stories, treasure trove and proof of Heaven

By Ian Hawkeye

An estate agent’s true stories of battles between buyers and sellers, plus a guide on where the world’s greatest treasure troves exist, and how to get them. This is also the story of a revolutionary sailing rig and, most importantly, the proofs of worlds beyond. To help his clients’ anonymity, Ian has placed this as a post-war romance, recalling what people paid for estates in those days.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781398473782

Ian Hawkeye

Ian Hawkeye has this pen name to protect client confidentiality. He expresses the thoughts of a 23-year-old estate agent BSc and his 23-year-old distaff partner, surveyor BSc. Ian has chosen the action to take place in 1957 to allow them to recall items when in their 80s. What you drove and what you wore were, at times, surprisingly modern and, sometimes, surprisingly old fashioned. It was also a time of upheaval in the property world, and, for some, changes in opinions. Excitement? Then, as now, it depended on your age. Ian.

Book preview

About the Author

Ian Hawkeye has this pen name to protect client confidentiality. He expresses the thoughts of a 23-year-old estate agent BSc and his 23-year-old distaff partner, surveyor BSc.

Ian has chosen the action to take place in 1957 to allow them to recall items when in their 80s. What you drove and what you wore were, at times, surprisingly modern and, sometimes, surprisingly old fashioned. It was also a time of upheaval in the property world, and, for some, changes in opinions.

Excitement? Then, as now, it depended on your age.

Ian.

Copyright Information ©

Ian Hawkeye 2022

The right of Ian Hawkeye to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781398473775 (Paperback)

ISBN9781398473782 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Chapter 1

Pat lowered her legs onto the loft trap ladder. John, standing on the landing, looked up at long legs in blue jeans easing down the steps. Stitched pockets on her pert bottom came into view, her small waist and back, black shining hair. She wore white trainers. He knew the thick soles were comfortable on the ladder rungs. Landing, she looked up at him and said, John, don’t talk loud in case we can be heard. There’s a hall below this roof. Part of the old lathe and plaster ceiling shows a hole, and you can see through on to wall plaster. The plaster has been splashed with red which runs down to the floor. It looks like blood!

Pat’s girlish face was wide eyed. She was breathing hard, and he would have noticed her breast pocket buttons but for her concern. I’ll climb up to have a look. Shine your torch on the roof over the part where you saw the hole, said John. He was six feet tall, suited and booted. They were both 23 years old and had come down together from Reading Uni, she as a building surveyor and he in valuation. They both worked for Acorn’s in Hamlet Court Road, Westcliff (a part of Southend on Sea) and shared a flat, with John, as an estate agent.

He wasn’t concerned by the red; a package might have burst. Pat, I’ve taken the building measurements and will give you my market valuation and insurance figure back at the office. He clattered downstairs and left. She balanced the loft trap into position, climbed down and folded up her portable ladder. As she finished, she heard footsteps and called, Why, back again? but it was not John, rather a somewhat weary looking man of 55 years, ten stone, in hat (a bowler) and jacket. Excuse me, sir, I thought you were my partner.

I am the headmaster. The man stared while she picked up her tool bag and ladder and retreated.

That night, when John and Pat, as usual, recalled their day, Pat expressed her concerns over the red stuff which John dismissed. She was the positive one. That night, Pat resolved to find the body of the red paint. A schoolgirl was in that room. She would try to find her.

Chapter 2

Five and six I’m bid for this fine knife cleaner. It was about two feet round with a cast iron crank. Made before stainless steel was developed in Sheffield. Any advance? You madam, look as though you are one to keep her cutlery shining. Will you say six shillings? Thank you, madam. Are you all done? Bang of the gavel! Sold to the lady here, John.

Now this collection of bed linen. Good pre-war stuff. Lot 64 in your catalogues. Do I hear £3 anywhere? Thank you, three pounds; three pounds ten shillings, four pounds, four pound ten I have; five pounds anywhere? Make me work; four pounds, seventeen and six. Any advance? Bang, sold to the Old Firm at four pounds, seventeen and sixpence.

Lot 65, a dozen pillow slips.

The thickset auctioneer was Mr Harold, seconded to Acorn & Son for this occasion and perched on a large dining table on which stood a smaller trestle and chairs for him and his clerk.

He was thick set, fortyish with receded thin fair hair. His clerk was our Pat, who was young, slim, a brunette with blue eyes. They both wore overcoats, for the house was cold. It was winter at The Old Brick House, Great Linge, which stood on its own, miles from Southend and was called The Old Brick House because in 1775, when it was built, most buildings were of timber hereabouts.

It was John’s job at the Sale to collect paper slips, which had been issued to let successful bidders write in their names and addresses. These he handed to Pat after squeezing through the crowd of bidders and onlookers who were in the large room and who spilt out into the hall, and some were sitting on the stairs.

The porter, who brought out a sample from each lot to hold it aloft, was Bill Belton, who looked a little like Oliver Hardy. He had a government licence to run two furniture vans. Government Party policy was to acquire all trades.

John, wake up and bring in that last betting slip, from Mr Harold. John woke up. He’d forgotten the lot number and turned to speak to those near him. John, shut up! I must have quiet, from the auctioneer.

Pat pointed towards the hall and John pushed through to there. At last successful, he squeezed back to the rostrum to hand the slip to Pat as the auctioneer was calling, Lot 70. What am I bid for the solid oak dining sideboard? Mr Belton is holding one of the drawers from this fine piece. He says every piece is fine, thought John.

That’s right, sir, very solid it is too, from the stentorian voice of Bill Belton.

Mr Harold worked fast, selling an average of one lot each ten seconds. Repetition was having a hypnotic effect, and some were dozing on their feet. Harold countered this by accepting the first bid for a wireless set.

Two and six – sold – BANG – to that Lady in green.

Oi, from elsewhere, I was just to offer a pound for that set.

Keep your pound towards the nine-inch Ekco telly that’s coming.

But, Guvnor.

Harold took no notice. He was already offering the next lot. Bad jokes and banter caused gasps of indignation and cheers and laughs and kept the crowd in a competitive mood. Some smirked and others wore red faces. Harold’s banter allowed Belton to respond and so it became a double act.

Lot 76, a quantity of sheets and soft goods.

"That’s right Sir, four single