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

inquisitive, struggled to see their faces, but their backs were towards her. The prices were climbing to meteoric heights. Gasps of disbelief escaped from everyone in a crescendo, with each rising offer.

Joan Underwood sat quietly at the back of the auction room as the proceedings droned on. She could see the sapphire even from where she sat, and as she listened to the offers from the anxious many, it finally slowed to the figure of £320,000, leaving only the two contestants.

As the auctioneer brought his gavel down for the last time, his words rang out, “GONE TO NUMBER 140.”

Joan slipped out of the auction house and into the busy street. For some reason she was feeling depressed, so she made her way to the train station and the journey home. Watching the houses and fields flashing passed the carriage windows, brought her mind back to her grandmother, and her continued sadness over her lost brother Bill. She wished she had met her great uncle, but he had disappeared long before she was born.

Charlie’s son Grant was aghast at the exorbitant sum his father had paid for the blue pendant sapphire.

“You wouldn’t get your money back if you sold it, so what’s the game and why do you play everything so close to your chest? If Mum had been alive, she would have been furious.”

Changing the subject, his father produced an invitation card for the Book of the Year award. It was to be held at one of London’s most prestigious hotels.

“It’s a little present for you Grant,” he explained, “plenty of food, wine and culture; right up your street I reckon. And I was going to tell you about the sapphire, it’s just that things have been a bit hectic.”

“For how many more years are you going to be too busy?” grumbled Grant. “Neither I, nor any of your friends ever have the slightest idea what you get up to.”

“Well you know now, or at least about some of it,” Charlie responded, “and I hope you have a good time at the Award. Oh! And don’t forget to wash behind your ears and pull your socks up.” They stared at one another for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

Joan Underwood left her desk and joined the others at the office vending machine for the tea break. It was the office chatter about this and that which she mainly looked forward to, and was busily engaged doing just that, when she overheard a conversation concerning the latest book reviews.

“The Book of the Year award goes to the author of a book concerning an English sailor, who disappeared in Sydney Australia in the 1930s,” said one of the girls.

Joan turned to her. “I apologise for interrupting, but that Book Award sounds interesting. I’d be grateful if you would let me know when and where the venue is, when you have a moment.”

The hotel lobby at the book award was already very crowded when Joan arrived, and she joined the general drift of conversing people towards the open doors of a vast conference hall. Five or ten minutes elapsed before she reached the hall entry. Men in evening suits stood at each side of the opening, collecting invitation cards.

“Sorry,” said one of them to Joan as she approached the door, “it’s by invitation only,” so she stepped aside. At that moment, a young woman pushed forward to a man by the side of Joan and introduced herself.

“Hi, Janet’s the name. I’m not sure if you remember me Grant. Surrey University, five years ago? I was secretary to the Student Union and you were one of our occasional conference speakers.” Grant didn’t remember at all as it was so long ago.

“Oh yes, of course,” he replied diplomatically, “how are you?”

“Oh I’m fine. The reason I came over though, there’s a great Dance with refreshments going on at the Grosvenor House Hotel in Park Lane. Why don’t you and your friend come along? I promise it will be more fun than this.”

Turning to Joan, he smiled and asked, “How do you feel about that?”

Joan was surprised at the stranger’s invitation but secretly, she was grateful for the company, and if the truth were known, she was rather hungry, although a little disappointed at not being able to see the book award.

The girls in Joan’s office the next morning were quick to notice how extremely bubbly she had become.

“Got someone new in our life have we?” they jibed.

Several months later, the office interest became much more intense when Joan came to her desk one morning with an engagement ring on her finger.

“When are we going to meet this man?” the girls asked.

“In four weeks time; you’re all invited to the reception,” she replied. “The wedding is for close family only.”

The ceremony was held quietly in a tenth century Buckinghamshire church, although ‘quietly’ was not the way it had begun.

Joan had asked Grant’s father Charlie to give her away, as she had lost both her parents some years before and Hannah had brought her up. The drama began at the door of the church just as Charlie was about to take her arm and proceed down the church aisle towards the altar.

“I would like you to wear this,” he said, “there could be no finer place to display it.”

From his pocket, he drew out a gold chain from which hung a huge sparkling electric blue sapphire. She felt her knees weaken at the sight of it, and as Charlie placed it around her neck, he gripped her arm to steady her. The acrid sting of smelling salts was the next thing she became aware of as she endeavoured to remain secure on her feet.

“There’s plenty of time, don’t rush yourself,” said the hovering vicar as he replaced the smelling salts in his cassock pocket.

Joan looked accusingly at Charlie.

“So, you were the man at the auction that bought the sapphire, and Grant must also have known all about it. Why all this mystery?” she said in alarm. “I don’t want my marriage to be full of secrets.”

“I am so sorry that it has caused you distress,” replied Charlie, “but I promise that all will be explained later.” The misunderstandings were soon forgiven and forgotten and the magic of the ceremony proceeded.

The reception was held in the ballroom of a seventeenth century hotel, where all eyes seemed to be transfixed on Joan’s pendant sapphire, and certainly so by her grandmother. The room went silent as Charlie stood up.

“I have some explaining to do,” he said, “and this seems the appropriate time to do so.”

In his hand were some sepia photographs which he then passed around.

“These photographs have just been handed to me by the auctioneer,” and he nodded to a man in a nearby seat. “It was this gentleman who finally delivered the pendant to me that now graces the lovely neck of my daughter-in-law Joan.”

The guests looked on curiously as Charlie continued.

“These are the photographs that finally provided the evidence connecting Sid the miner, in Martin Troy’s book, with that of the pendant sapphire.”

Charlie’s voice was interrupted by a gasp from Joan’s grandmother. She was holding one of the photographs and staring incredulously at it.

 

“IT’S BILL, MY BROTHER, IT’S BILL!” she cried out. Then tearfully and slowly she said, “I still recognise him. I always knew I would find him someday.”

There was a deathly hush in the room as Joan comforted Hannah. Then, all eyes moved towards Charlie.

Charlie was nonplussed.

“Well who would have believed it?” he began. “My secret life is beginning to unravel. You see, I wrote this story under a pseudonym, as an epitaph to a courageous man who pursued an impossible dream, in a seemingly intolerable place. It was his story, his adventure, in which I had no right to draw attention to myself. My pen name is ... ‘Martin Troy’. I also changed Bill’s name to ‘Sid’, so as to further ensure anonymity.”

Charlie looked at Hannah who with tears in her eyes, slowly nodded in sympathetic approval.

“There are other things that need to be mentioned that have only just been discovered,” he continued. “At Bills death, his valuables were ceded to his miner friend, who subsequently sold them to a Japanese buyer. A letter and photos went with them for provenance purposes. Those photographs then languished for decades in the buyer’s storeroom, even though the pendent sapphire had been sold years ago to an English buyer. So, had it not been for the auction house insisting on proof of provenance, the search for the photographs that we now have before us, would not have happened.”

Charlie paused for a moment, looked at Hannah and then to those around the room.

“So now you know. I was the person present when that sapphire was dug from the ground by my friend Bill, Hannah’s brother, and we must remember, that it is really he that has just won the Book of the Year award.”

There was a hush in the room as people looked at one another, lost for words.

The vicar claimed the audience’s attention as he stood up. He then mystified everyone with his opening words.

“Never were three marriages more blessed in heaven than these,” he continued, “for in the coming together of Joan and Grant, there was also the coming together of Joan’s grandmother with her long lost brother Bill, in the most marvellous way. Thirdly, through this marriage, the great pendant sapphire has been reunited with Bill’s family. Think how happy that would have made him feel. But what we must not underplay, is the part played by Grant’s father Charlie in all of this. After all, it was he, against all odds, who set in motion all that has led to this moment.”

It was agreed afterwards by everyone present that they had never witnessed such a boisterous standing ovation, and when the underlying story of the book reached the media, Charlie’s book sales quadrupled. But then he always did fall on his feet.

 

 

 

What Goes Around

I was sitting alone in a police cell for the second time in just over three years, and it gave me time to think about the past events that had led to my incarceration.

Twelve months had passed since completing my three year prison sentence, of which I served only two, and I was still as angry as the day I was convicted.

My problems began after arriving home late one evening; I had noticed my neighbour’s front door was slightly ajar and went to investigate. It seemed suspicious because my neighbours were away, so I crept in as quietly as possible.

On reaching the sitting-room, there were sounds of drawers and cupboards being opened and the light of a small torch had faintly lightened the darkness at the far end of the room. Peeking around the door, I was astounded to see a uniformed police officer putting small valuable items into his pockets. A floorboard creaked under my foot and a torch shone in my face. He bolted through a window that had been opened for a quick escape; this was followed by a crash as the man lost his footing and he fell to the ground, which knocked him unconscious.

The whole street had been alerted by the noise, and people began crowding