Step into the Rainbow by Colin R Brookfield (read 50 shades of grey txt) 📕

24th, which is only about three and a half hours after George has delivered you back home from your fishing trip, and you will be very tired.”

She was feeling rather cross that her six day symposium in Brussels had clashed with the first week of Peter’s three week holiday. “Quite honestly Peter, I would have felt better knowing you were resting at home with a good book. At least then, I would know you hadn’t fallen into a river with your silly old fishing rod, or that you weren’t rolling about in the hay with the farmer’s daughter,” she said with a smile. “Oh well, at least we’ll get away to the sun for a few weeks afterwards.”

The following morning, after a parting kiss and some good advice to her husband about not sitting about fishing in the rain, Jill drove off to the airport and Peter embarked on the first stage of his holiday, with his brother-in-law chauffeur.

“Thanks for this George, I’d have been in rather a mess without your help, the garage promised me faithfully that the car would be ready, and then to be told at the last minute that it wouldn’t, really got matters off to a bad start. Though in the light of how things have turned out, it’s probably for the best. I don’t really need a car when I’m at the cottage.”

“Sounds a bit static,” George replied, with the village pub and the local brew uppermost in his mind, “it wouldn’t suit me, being without wheels.”

“To tell you the truth, I would normally feel the same way, but not this time. It may sound rather strange, but as I sat here watching the countryside slip by, my thoughts were on the things that my grandfather mentioned when I last visited him. You see, his words hadn’t struck home in the way they normally would, due to my rather overworked state of mind.” He took a moment to contemplate. “Grandfather was born in the very same Bramble Lane that we are going to, and who knows, perhaps our family name will still be known by someone, or the cottage might still be there.”

“Steady on old chap,” said George, “you sound as if you might be building yourself up for a bit of a disappointment.”

“You’re probably right. Grandfather had such an extraordinarily engaging way of putting things, that he did rather affect one’s imagination. He gave me a few sketches of his old hideaway fishing places around the mere and rivers, close to Bramble Lane. I hope they’re still there. From all accounts it’s supposed to be an isolated, but very beautiful place.”

Peter sat for a while wondering whether it would look the same now, as he settled more comfortably in his seat.

“I must say though, he was rather strange about the ring he gave me,” holding it up for George to see. “There was also some old money in a tiny drawstring bag. He said they all belonged together and asked me if I would wear the ring. Sounds silly I know, but I’ve brought the whole lot with me. He was a hundred and four, and passed away only two days after I saw him, so this is really something of a ‘sentimental journey’, visiting secret places that only he knew. I’m really going to miss that old fellow.”

The car slowed down and drew into the car park of a Shrewsbury hotel.

“We should be at your place within an hour or so,” said George encouragingly. “Fancy a sandwich? Must be two hours since we had breakfast.”

“Don’t know where you put it all. Though, a cup of coffee wouldn’t go amiss.”

George proved quite accurate in his estimate. Within an hour of leaving the hotel, they finally stopped by the side of, what could only have been Bramble Lane, and it corresponded with the seven miles past the village as instructed.

“I can see something in the hedge,” observed Peter, as he made his way towards it.

“What is it?” shouted George.

“It’s an old signpost, but most of the paint has peeled off. The word ‘lane’ is still readable but the first two letters of ‘Bramble’ have disappeared. We have evidently arrived at the right spot though,” Peter yelled.

“Alright, get in, and I’ll drive you down.”

“Not a good idea, it looks like a walking job,” Peter replied as he moved back towards the car. “There’s no way a car could get down this deeply rutted lane without parting company with the exhaust pipe and engine sump. Anyway George, many thanks, you’ve been great company. I promise to catch you a few trout, and no doubt you will have a few exaggerated fishing tales to listen to. Anyway, I suppose it’s time I made a move, I was told it’s only a hundred yards or so up the lane to the cottage, so I’ll see you on the twenty-fourth at the arranged time.”

“OK, see you in a week; have a good time,” George shouted as he drove off.

Picking up his fishing rod, he attached it to one of the cases with two elastic straps, and set off along the dusty track. It soon became obvious that the only form of transport using the track must have been horse and cart; there were deep ruts either side of him, left by large iron-edged wooden wheels. There were also many indentations through the centre of the track, made by the hooves of a large draft horse.

After walking some half a mile with no sign of human habitation, Peter sat down for a rest on one of the cases. Close-by, he noticed a rusty, old cast iron water pump half covered with vegetation, protruding from the high hedgerow.

“The first sign of human existence!” he exclaimed out loudly, “Well passed existence.” He stood up and walked over to inspect it. Taking hold of the long, graceful cast iron handle, he eased it upward to see if the antique still worked. Its rusty parts let out a loud squeal of protest, and so did every bird within two hundred yards as they exploded from hedges and trees in alarm.

He let go, as though the handle had delivered an electric shock. “Hello countryside,” he said quietly, “the city has arrived.”

Then almost with a feeling of embarrassment, he lifted his belongings and removed himself from the scene of desecration.

Plodding on for another quarter of a mile did nothing for his rising feeling that something had gone badly wrong, and what was more, the feedback he was receiving from his shoulders and limbs, gave the clear message that they were not prepared to put up with much more of it. It was then that he saw something that raised his hopes.

The track had just made a sharp bend to the left and he was grateful to be confronted by a small, low cottage that looked as old and as natural in its surroundings, as did the two ancient oaks that stood to the left of it. The track itself ended at a five-bar farm gate at the other side of the cottage. It then led on further into some small outbuildings belonging to the tiny farm.

Peter spotted the name ‘Sanscroft’ above the cottage front entrance. “That’s something I wasn’t told,” he muttered to himself.

After lifting the iron door-knocker, it fell with an unexpectedly loud crash, that once again set the birds squawking – and Peter, cringing.

A few moments later, he heard approaching footsteps on a stone floor, and the door opened wide to reveal the cheerful, though slightly surprised figure, of a motherly, middle-aged woman wearing rather old-fashioned clothes.

“Yes sir?” she said, in a strong country accent. “What can I do for you?”

There was a clear feeling that he was unexpected.

“My name is Spencer,” he spluttered, “Peter Spencer. I was under the impression that arrangements had been made for me to stay with you for a week’s holiday.”

“Well, I’ve not ‘eard anything about that, I’m afraid you must ‘ave come to the wrong place,” she replied.

“Obviously, something has gone dreadfully wrong and it’s left me in rather a mess. I can’t face the walk back to the road with all my luggage, and even if I could, it’s a further seven miles to the village.”

“Pr’aps you ‘ad better come in,” she said, “and we can talk about it while the kettle is boiling. By the way sir, my name is Mrs Persill.”

“I’m from London,” he quickly added.

“I could tell that,” she replied, “city folk, they say, ‘ave some very rum ways of dressing, like we never see in these parts.”

They passed through a second doorway that led immediately into a cosy, low-ceilinged, apparently multipurpose room. It had a small window to the front and another that looked out on the back of the cottage. Under this window stood a large table covered with a heavy material. A handsome brass oil lamp, with amber coloured glassware stood in its centre. The room so fascinated Peter, that despite his obvious plight, he couldn’t help absorbing every little detail. There were four chairs placed around the table and like the hallway, the floor was flagged in stone.

On the wall to the left of the table, there was a wide chimney breast, and inset into it was a large black, iron cooking range with an open fire in its centre. The fire apparently heated the oven to the left of it, as well as the water on the right, as there was a large polished brass tap to the lower part of that section. On the hot plates over the oven and the water section, stood a large iron frying pan, several black cooking pots and a huge black kettle which Mrs. Persill was now filling with fresh water from a nearby jug. The kettle was then hoisted – with the skill of constant practice – onto a large hook which left it suspended at the optimum distance above the flames. There was a great deal of headroom above the range, almost five feet from floor level, before the heavy timber mantle shelf jutted out. On this, stood a collection of hand-carved wooden pipes and a few clay ones. Three well-used candle holders with their snuffs sat there as if in readiness for some emergency.

Hanging on the wall to one side of the chimney breast was a highly-polished copper, bed-warming pan. On a shelf above it, casting a baleful eye in Peter’s direction, was a stuffed owl, covered for protection with an elongated glass dome. To the other side of the chimney breast hung a wall clock; its brass pendulum swinging hypnotically from side-to-side beneath its glass-windowed wooden case.

The only rug to be seen, lay in front of the cooking range, and nearby stood a comfortable chair.

The wall opposite the fire had a heavy curtain hanging in its centre, which he suspected covered an opening at the foot of some stairs. Several feet to the left of that, was a door which presumably led to another room.

Suddenly, a slight sound drew his attention to an armchair that had its back towards him. Moving forward a little, he spied a small boy curled up fast asleep within it.

Mrs. Persill noticed Peter’s sudden observation. “Unusual for our William to be asleep this time a day,” she said.

“He looks comfortable,” Peter indicated, as he lowered himself into a chair that was provided for him, and it wasn’t long before a hot drink and home-made bread and butter was placed in front of him.

“Now look,” she said as she sat down, “if you feel a need to get back to the village, I can get my ‘usband to ‘fix up the ‘orse and cart. It’s not very posh mind you. Then he could take you, once ‘e’s finished in the lower field. That’d be in about three hours or so. He couldn’t come right away as ‘e’s cutting the last of the corn while the weather is right. I would like to say though, we ‘ave ‘ad the