Storyteller by Colin & Anne Brookfield (top inspirational books .txt) 📕

view. It was the last evening of his holiday, and most of his things were already packed to save time for the following day. Moving his legs over the side of the bed he slid them to the floor.

Sitting for a while on the chair by the washstand, he took the sovereign ring off his finger and idly turned it over and over in his hands as he went through the week’s events. Then, something about the ring caught his eye. There was a pin-size hole just beneath its outer edge. His curiosity aroused, Peter reached for his tie pin from an open case and pressed it into the hole. There was a sharp click as the claws holding the coin flew open, sending the sovereign tumbling to the floor. Beneath the space where the coin had been, was a thin gold base inscribed with initials that made no sense to him. They were certainly not his grandfather’s.

He picked up the gold coin, replaced it and squeezed the ring claws between his fingers. There was another audible click as they sprang back into position, firmly grasping the coin.

“Well,” said Mrs. Persill the following day as she cleared away the last of the late lunch things, “it’s been a pleasure ‘aving you. Father is just fixing the ‘orse and cart so as to get you and your luggage to the road. I do ‘ope your friend don’t forget to meet you there.”

“I can’t thank you enough. It’s been a dream holiday and with such lovely people.” He put his hand inside his coat jacket to withdraw his wallet. “Now, how much do I owe you?”

She flushed a little. “I don’t rightly know what to say. What if we settle for seven shillings and sixpence?”

Peter was dumbstruck. “Seven and sixpence, my goodness, that’s not enough,” he said, producing three fifty pound notes.

“We don’t use that kind of London money round ‘ere, I’ve never seen the likes of that before,” she said.

Peter was mortally embarrassed as he tumbled all his worldly pocket goods onto the table in a vain hope, that by some miracle, Mrs. Persill’s eyes would suddenly alight upon a face-saving solution.

“There you are!” she suddenly exclaimed reaching unexpectedly, not for the nice newly-minted coinage of the day, but for the tarnished old coins that had spilt out of his grandfather’s string bag onto the table. In a state of thorough confusion, he watched as Mrs. Persill emptied the contents of the bag completely upon the table and proceeded to total them up. “Seven and fourpence, fivepence, sixpence. Exactly right,” she said, “not a penny more or less.”

How uncanny, he thought.

She beamed. “I’m sorry if I made you feel a bit awkward over that London money, it’s not reached our parts yet. Still, we’re always a bit behind the times.”

Peter pulled the ring from his finger. “Please let me at least add this to the payment. The gold coin comes out if you need to use it.”

Her face changed almost to panic. “That would be taking a grave advantage of you,” she said. “It’s far too much money for the little that we ‘ave done. In fact I’m feeling very guilty about the seven and six.”

“Very well then,” said Peter. An unlikely thought crossed his mind. Old money might have some high resale value in a neighbouring town’s antique shop which could account for her preference for it. It did sound a bit far-fetched though. Then his mind drifted back to the business of the holiday home agency. Perhaps there had been some sort of belated contact with Mrs. Persill with regards to settlement.

“Look, what about me making William a present of the ring. To tell you the truth, my wife dislikes it, so it won’t get worn. William can wear it when he becomes a big lad.” Mrs. Persill reluctantly nodded her head in assent.

She later stood by the gate to wave goodbye to him as Mr. Persill arrived to help load his luggage.

The horse and cart finally clattered and jostled to a halt at the road end of the lane. Peter clambered to the ground and salvaged his cases; he then stood back, as horse and cart turned in a wide sweep across the road, ready for its return along the lane.

Peter smiled and nodded his goodbye to Mr. Persill, who did the same as he touched his forelock with his hand, in that amusing Good afternoon Squire way of delivering it.

Soon he was alone and sitting quietly on one of his cases waiting for George’s arrival.

A car horn blared in the distance and minutes later, George’s car pulled up at his side. Then, with all the luggage loaded, they were soon on their way.

“What on earth do you get up to on these once-a-week quick turnaround trips of yours?” Peter enquired.

“Well,” he said, “as a matter of fact, I’ve got a small shop that someone looks after for me and I just pop down once a week to bank the declarables. I pocket the rest and toddle home.”

“I’m not listening,” remarked Peter.

“Well, what have YOU got to say,” George enquired as the miles rolled away beneath the wheels of the car, “tell me all about the holiday old boy.” Peter consented, but knowing what a sceptic dear old George could be, left out all the eyebrow-raising parts. George had however, remarked on the name of the cottage.

“Sans, that means without doesn’t it? Sanscroft. How strange!”

It was two weeks later when the plane touched down at Heathrow, and a healthily tanned Peter and Jill made their way back home after their holiday together in the sun.

There were only two letters on the doormat, which rather surprised Jill, given the amount of cards and letters that she had dispatched to friends and relations. It was with a feeling of confusion that she read the contents of the first letter. It was from the Country Cottages people.

 

“Dear Mr. Spencer,

We were sorry to discover that you did not arrive as arranged at Bramble Lane. However, it is regretted that due to these circumstances, we are unable to refund your deposit.

Yours sincerely...........”

 

All kinds of suspicions began crowding into Jill’s mind. No! He’s not that type of person. How many women have made that mistake? she thought, remembering how uncharacteristically quiet he had been on holiday – hardly mentioning his fishing.

“Peter, I need a word with you!”

“Don’t be silly Jill, there’s been a mix up. I’ll get a letter off to Mrs. Persill right away. No I won’t. George will confirm that he left me at Bramble Lane and just to further satisfy you, when he makes his usual trip tomorrow, I’m sure he won’t mind parking his car at the end of the lane and taking a walk up to the Persill’s cottage. We can give him a large bunch of flowers to deliver on my behalf, and he can sort out this payment business at the same time.”

“Do I hear this right?” spluttered Jill, “You stayed at a cottage for a whole week, seemingly unpaid for, with people who were not expecting you?”

“Please,” said Peter, “I’m as nonplussed as you are. Let’s drop the subject. George will get it sorted out for us.”

Knowing that bad news seldom comes alone, Peter opened the second letter. He hoped that by doing so, any more bad news might be presented in a more favourable light.

“It seems we have to see the solicitor at three-thirty this Saturday,” he said. “It’s about a parcel that was entrusted to them by grandfather, to be given to us after his death.”

The following Friday evening they were both waiting with some trepidation for George to knock on the door. They were having a cup of coffee in the kitchen when he arrived.

Jill opened the door. “At last!” she gasped, “I’ve been biting my finger nails over this. Come on in.” Jill took a surprisingly short time settling him down with a hot drink. “Now, what’s the Bramble Lane story?”

“Better sit down both of you,” he replied, “because you won’t get much satisfaction from the answer.”

Suddenly a cold chill went through Peter. “Before you say any more George, I want to tell you both the full story. I couldn’t bring myself to do so before, because I thought it was all too bizarre to be believed.”

After Peter had finished, they all went quiet. Then George broke the silence.

“It so happens,” he said, “that when Peter and I drove out of the village towards Bramble Lane, we were on what they called ‘the old road’. The new road that replaced it, branched off sharply to the left just outside the village and, typical of rural villages, nobody had bothered to signpost it. Anyway, the roads came together again fifteen miles further on. I checked this new road and guess what? I discovered Bramble Lane right where it was expected to be but, it was not our Bramble Lane; this one was much wider with a tarmac finish, so I turned the car around and took the old road. I checked it twice from one end to the other and there was no lane to be found anywhere. I then went to the village library and you’ll never guess! There used to be an AMBLE Lane on the old road and it led to a sort of cottage-cum-farm. The name of the people that lived there was ‘Persill’, but get this, the Persills died over NINETY years ago. The land owners demolished the empty buildings; the unwanted lane had its hedges uprooted and the plough took care of the rest.”

Jill and Peter looked at each other in total perplexity. The story was unbelievable.

“It’s almost as if the cottage fulfilled the destiny of its name, doesn’t it?” George said in wonderment.

The following Saturday, Peter presented himself at the solicitor’s office and collected the parcel.

“Well?” Jill intimated, nodding towards the package that sat on the end of the dining room table, “Are we frightened to open it?”

“Not at all,” he replied, “I just thought you would like the privilege.”

Once inside the wrapping paper, they discovered a sealed letter and a bulging folder with his grandfather’s name on it.

“I didn’t know your grandfather whiled his time away with this sort of stuff,” said Jill as she opened up the folder and took out several pages. “Do you want to hear it?”

“Well, he wouldn’t have left it if he hadn’t wanted me to hear it, now would he?”

“Well I hope you like poetry,” she said, “because there seems to be a lot of it. I’ll just read you a couple of short ones. This one’s called ‘Brief Allotted Whiles’.

How many candles lit and guttered

that left their scent upon the air;

but that was in a bygone time

and not a trace is left to share.

 

So many feet have come and gone

that brought their sadness and their smiles

that left to each along the way

cherished thoughts, for brief allotted whiles.

 

The next one’s called ‘The Thrushes Song’, said Jill.

Lesser moments come and perish

and then a moment left to cherish,

a heart that’s touched by something gone

as flies away the Thrushes Song.

“Goodness me Jill, even the poetry seems related to my experience. Don’t read any more.”

Peter picked up the sealed envelope and opened it. Then having read aloud the customary preamble, he moved on to the more relevant details. It was in his grandfather’s handwriting:

 

“And now Peter, there is something I wish to say that should have been said a long time ago.

Originally my name was William Persill and not William Spencer, as you have always known me. 

I was born and raised by my parents to the age of twelve at ‘Sanscroft’, in Amble Lane. Sadly though, my father suddenly became very ill and eventually died. My mother struggled on for about another year against impossible odds through a very severe winter, then fell seriously ill herself. I remember her saying to me during her last moments that I was to have the gold ring with the sovereign in it. She said “You remember