Preserves
Seven jewel-like jars of homemade jam stood on the low wall outside number 17 alongside a sign saying ‘Preserves’, and a small wooden honesty box. Angela fished about in her coat pocket and finding a pound coin, dropped it in and placed one jar into her large Mulberry handbag and carried on down the tree-lined lane to the station. She caught the 7.15 to Cannon Street, and her job at Bruard, Arkle, and Peacock, stockbrokers, where she was in charge of betting on the FTSE100 each day — or at least that’s how she explained what she did to teachers and doctors that she met at dinner parties. When she arrived at her office she hung up her camel coloured cashmere coat behind the door, stowed her bag in the bottom drawer of her desk, and switched on her desktop computer.
‘Good morning, Ms Kelley.’ Emily brought in a venti Americano and a white china plate with a large golden croissant on it, and placed them both on the desk. Angela turned to her assistant and with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, replied, ‘Thanks. Close the door behind you. I don’t want to be disturbed this morning — I’ve a lot to do before the Dow comes online.’
Once the door was closed Angela sat in her large leather chair, kicked off her Louboutin heels, and signed into her PC. She skimmed the headlines on the BBC, the Guardian, Telegraph, Reuters, and the FT as she drank her coffee and nibbled at her pastry. A particularly interesting article on restorative justice caught her eye and as she began to read about young offenders cleaning ditches and picking up litter, she reached for the jar of jam from the drawer where her handbag lay. The jar opened with a gentle ‘pop’. As she removed the silver lid the aroma of honeysuckle, roses, and crisp apples was released. Without bothering with a knife, Angela dipped her croissant into the amber coloured sweetness.
The day passed swiftly with successful trade after successful trade, and by the time the clock ticked around to 6pm she was more than half a million pounds up on her previous best day. The next day was the same. At the end of the third day Angela had amassed the wealth of a small state. The jam was all gone.
The following day was Friday. Her walk along the lane to the station included a pause at number 17 to pick up another jar of homemade jam in exchange for a single pound coin.
Angela decided to take a lunch break today as a small reward for her hard work. A noon hair appointment, followed by nails at 3pm barely made a dent in the day’s successes. Henry, Henry Peacock, the Peacock of Bruard, Arkle, and Peacock, stockbrokers, had noticed. ‘Care to join us floor boys for drinks later, Angie?’
‘Oh, erm, that’s very kind of you Mr Peacock, thank you.’
‘Henry, darling, call me Henry! We’ll be in the Ark.’
At 7pm Angela joined the pack of loud men in expensive suits drinking gin cocktails. She laughed at their cruel jokes, added more of her own, and shone in the riches she’d made that week. She bought cocktails and a bottle of Krug; her hair glittered like gold, and her nails sparkled like diamonds as she tipped back each glassful.
Weeks passed with the same routine — Angela bought her jar of blissful jam on the way to the station — and slowly the leaves on the trees began to turn a burnished bronze as the days became shorter, and the mornings darker. And then one morning she reached number 17 to find only a single jar stood on the low wall. She shrugged her shoulders and dropped it into her bag without a second thought or a single coin.
By now Angela was the wunderkind of her firm, and there were whispers that she might be up for partnership because she’d made so much money in the previous months. Emily, as usual, brought Angela her daily coffee and croissant, and retreated silently to leave her reading the news online. The homemade jam had become part of Angela’s daily routine.
As she clicked on the onscreen news tabs she dipped the flaking pastry into the lucent syrup and was reminded of rare pears and greengages, damsons and bilberries. Today, as she read about wars, famines, and celebrities she ate the entire jar, dipping fingers in to sweep all traces from the smooth clear glass. Then she picked up the silver lid and began to lick at it, but she caught one of her front teeth on the lip of the lid and a single tooth broke, jagged like a piece of brittle porcelain. Angela screamed, slapping her hand to her mouth. Emily came rushing in, but Angela waved her away with a scowl. A couple of clicks on her PC sorted an emergency dental appointment and a tense email to her assistant assured Angela that she’d not need see or speak to anyone before her tooth was fixed.
She grabbed her camel coloured cashmere coat and large Mulberry handbag and made a dash for the door, but as she did another tooth shattered in her mouth, and another, and another. By the time Angela reached the busy road outside the firm of Bruard, Arkle, and Peacock, stockbrokers, her teeth were all gone, each one dissolved like a delicate confection of spun sugar, leaving thirty-two empty sockets in raw pink gums.
She flagged down a passing black cab and showed him the Google map of her dental surgeon’s practice. As she climbed into the rear seat of the taxi she caught her hair on the door and a handful came away leaving a circular bald patch the size of a single pound coin.
