Hidden treasure? (a true story)

This story relates to true events, involving myself, and a mate, from my misspent youth, when we were both sixteen years old. It is as accurate as the vagaries of time allows, except for the company name and the two fictional characters chosen to carry the story through.

Mick Coombs and Joe Paynter trudged up Stanley road with their heads bent into a bitterly cold early morning wind, towards their place of work at the Edward and Derby glassworks, famous throughout the world for its innovative design and top quality craftsmanship. Stanley road continued up and over Stanley hill, dissecting the Glassworks into blue and white-collar havens.

The right hand side of the road was dominated by a massive cooling-tower, wide at its base but gradually tapering up, casting a mighty shadow over several obsolete buildings. New buildings had been added, the exclusive reserve of office staff administering to the day to day running of a successful international enterprise.

A massive three-story factory had been built on the opposite side of the road where the main workforce operated. Over the weekend workmen had excavated a sizable hole in the lane-way adjacent to the main workshop building, as part of an overhaul of the ancient sewage system.

Joe spent the morning at his workstation in the pattern shop, roughing out a batch of whisky tumblers. Meanwhile Mick lazed around on the fourth-floor, well hidden in the inner depths of the maintenance shop. The lunchtime bell saw workers rushing to various destinations, Mick and Joe, among them.

After finishing their sandwiches, Mick and Joe went into the laneway for their customary game off kick to kick soccer. They had hardly begun when the ball disappeared down the large freshly dug hole. Joe clambered down to retrieve it, then popped his head back up, had a quick look around to make sure no one else was looking, and said.

“Mick! Come down here and have a look what I’ve found!”

Mick climbed down to find a small, neatly manufactured opening, in the brick footings, about three feet by one foot, obscured from above by rubble. Without a word being spoken Mick and Joe lowered themselves through the opening, finding themselves in a brick-built cellar.

The room contained old glasswork’s equipment, such as, rusty shovels, rotting timber boxes, and general obsolete equipment. Mick cast his eyes on the cellar-floor, noticing a large sheet of steel plate. Something struck him as being odd about its purpose, and he stood there puzzling over it, before Joe broke the silence.

“This must have been an old storeroom sometime back in the past Mick, but it hasn’t had any company for a long time, judging by the accumulated dust. What do you reckon mate?”

“Probably Joe,” replied Mick, still studying the steel plate.

Mick scooped up some dry sand, piled it against the wall, and watched as it quickly disappear down the gap.

“Bloody hell Mick, there must be something down there?”

“Yes Joe, it could just be a hole, or some sort of vent, but that steel is there to cover something up. Let’s come back when we're a bit more prepared."

Mick returned to his station and found two ancient oil lamps amongst the multitude of objects crammed onto one of the maintenance-shop tables. He wrapped them around an old pair of overalls, then found a steel jemmy bar, also adding a toolbox for cover. He went down to the laneway, letting the Jemmy-bar slide to the bottom of the hole as he strolled by.

At knockoff time Mick and Joe joined the stream of noisy workers, pouring out of the Glassworks. After doing a half-hour circuit around Colliston Park they casually strolled back into the deserted lane-way, then climbed back down into the cellar. Mick forced the steel away from the wall, lit both lamps and lowered one of them into the darkness. A row of rusty iron horseshoe shaped steps, inlayed into the wall, came into view. Mick handed Joe the oil lamp he'd been carrying and climbed down a few of the staggered steps, then said.

“Pass the lamp down Joe,”

Joe carefully lowered the lamp into Mick’s outstretched hand and he continued down until his feet landed on solid ground. Mick raised the lamp above his head, completed a slow three hundred and sixty degree turn, before saying.

“Bleedin’ hell Joe, you’ll never guess what's down here?”

Joe climbed down to join Mick, then with his lamp held aloft he stood In amazement as a perfectly formed brick tunnel, with a majestic, curved-arch ceiling, disappeared into the flickering void. A brick wall formed one end of the tunnel at their backs, so they began to head slowly in the other direction. The tunnel was eerie enough in itself, but the elongated shadows that the oil lamps were creating sent cold shivers down both explorers’ backs. The sound of their heavy work boots echoing off the wall behind them faded into the murky distance. They inched their way forward in the still dry air to an opening that appeared on one side. Mick stepped through the opening, discovering what appeared to be an old storage room, half full of sand, a few old broken bottles and rusty tins. They carried on finding these old storerooms staggered along the tunnel, but no riches as yet.

About sixty metres along, the tunnel branched off.

Mick chose the right hand tunnel which dropped away in a downward arc. About thirty more metres down they came to two old heavy looking, rusty metal doors. Mick elicited squealing sounds from the rusty metal lever and hinges as he forced the left door open, flooding themselves in bright sunlight in the process. They stepped out onto a long brick landing, obviously designed for barges to tie up to. A putrid smelling cutting clogged with weeds had been excavated out into the main canal, once the lifeblood of industrialised England, since their development in the eighteen fifties. Both ends of the canal were fenced off and overgrown to the extent that traffic on the main canal would pass by oblivious to its existence.

After a quick inspection failed to uncover anything else of interest they headed back up the tunnel to the fork and set off along the second tunnel. This second tunnel had a slight curve to the left and went on for about another fifty meters, with two more storerooms either side. As they headed forward they could see the tunnel's end looming up and a wave of disappointment washed over them. But gradually another line of metal horseshoe-shaped steps came into view, leading to the underside of a metal manhole cover. Mick put his lamp down and climbed up the steps, eased the cover up a little, and scanned around. Joe, being unable to contain himself any longer, said.

“Bloomin' hell Mick, what have you found up there?”

Mick carefully raised the cover up just past vertical, and said.

“It’s some sort of enclosed space, there’s two brick walls, one behind me and one on my right, with what looks like, an old disused building on my left, with an open archway ahead of me, leading into that ginormous cooling tower."

Mick climbed out, put his head back into the manhole cover and said.

“Come on Christopher Columbus, get yer backside up here and let's see what’s cookin’.”

Joe scrambled out surveying the enclosed courtyard, where waist high grass covered an area, approximately ten by thirty metres. Mick tiptoed through the archway and entered the massive cooling tower. Being obsolete, it just contained several piles of wooden pallets, used to carry boxes of finished cut-glass.

On the other side of the cooling tower another opening was built into the tower's wall. Mick passed through this second arch, where a short, wide, covered-alley led to the drive, giving access to the administration section on the opposite side of the road to where their journey had begun.

They went back to the manhole where Mick paused, examining the old two-story building. It had four large windows top and bottom, too filthy to see through. Between the windows rested a pile of old corrugated iron sheets haphazardly piled up on end against its wall.

Mick and Joe went back and forth through the tunnels for a couple of weeks thinking their explorations were over. Then one day Mick was walking up the hill towards the glassworks. When he reached the factory’s main gates he looked across the road at the back of the disused building that the manhole cover gave access to. It was set back from the road with four large windows overlooking the main road. After studying the building for a little while, something suddenly dawned upon him.

At the end of the day he and Joe made their way through the tunnel and then up through the manhole. They stood facing the imposing old two-story building. Mick made his way over through the waist high grass and squeezed behind the sheets of iron that were piled up against the walls. As he’d suspected two rotting timber doors faced him. He turned the tarnished brass door knob and the left door creaked open. Joe followed him in and said.

“Blimey Mick, there’s more dust in here than Tutankhamun's bleedin’ tomb. What do you make of the place?”

“Dunno Joe, but with all these long benches it could have been an old cuttin’ or roughin’ out shop. We might find some old coloured glass amongst this lot.”

Joe carried on fossicking about whilst Mick’s eye traversed the room. He focused on two zig-zagging lines running diagonally up the opposite wall, where a set of stairs had obviously once been. The floorboards were missing from the room above, but his eyes followed the floor-joists down the length of the building, noticing that a small section of floor remained intact at the far end.

Mick said, "Joe, give us a bunk up onto that cupboard, so I can get up top.”

Joe cupped his hand and hoisted Mick up on top of the cupboard. He hauled himself up between two floor-joists, then walked along the line of floor-joists until he stepped onto the remaining wooden floor. It went down a few meters, then an opening on Mick's left came partially into view. The whole ramshackle room was thick with dusty black cobwebs, emitting a stale dry odour.

Mick slowly turned the corner and stood back for a moment in shocked surprise. A brand new pine door greeted him, so alien to its surroundings that Mick wondered for a moment if it was real. He tiptoed up to the door, quietly turned the knob, and slowly opened the door. Once again he stared in amazement. Row upon row of shelves either side of a corridor greeted him with finished glass, sparkling in places through gaps in the crepe wrapping-paper.

'Well i never, muttered Mick under his breath. Now what have we got here.'

With time against them, they made their way back through the tunnels.

That sparkling cut glass was too good to resist of course. So over the next five weeks they helped themselves to quite a lot of choice pieces. Eager buyers placed their orders as a surreptitious black market opened up.

Mick and Joe figured they’d spent the best part of a year helping to make the stuff, so a few bits here or there wouldn’t go amiss.

They were wrong of course and not for the first, or the last time in their young lives. Five weeks into their lucrative enterprise a typed message appeared on the main notice board.

‘It has come to the attention of the directors of this company, that finished cutglass has been circulating around the workshops. If this practice does not cease forthwith, police will be informed and the culprits will be prosecuted.’

It had been circulating in a few other places too, where they didn’t have notice boards. But they never found out about those. Mick and Joe melted into the background and the tunnels stayed hidden. A giant excavator filled the hole up and buried its secret with it. The other access point, via the manhole cover is probably still there, if you know where to look of course. Forty-three years after the event.