Storyteller, Colin & Anne Brookfield [best fiction books to read .TXT] 📗

we could only afford one cow, I couldn’t bring myself to break the tradition.”

“Quite right too,” Peter said with conviction, “neither would I.”

It turned out to be the sort of day that dreams were made of; not so much because of catching the fish (that act weighed rather heavily on his conscience and accounted for most of his catch regaining their freedom) but, the pleasure of the day had more to do with the disappearance of those nagging problems that normally dogged his professional life. In this place, he just seemed to slip unconsciously into the natural rhythm of the surroundings until he felt part of everything.

During this time, his gaze had been moving lazily across the waters, until his attention was suddenly drawn to, what appeared to be a small island at its centre with some sort of structure within its foliage. It occurred to him, that if this turns out to be the case, then it must have been something to do with the ‘Great house’ estate that Mrs. Persill mentioned. Being out of reach, he soon put it out of his mind.

A Mallard duck broke the silence as it suddenly exploded from the reeds close-by.

“Good gracious!” he exclaimed looking at his watch in disbelief. “Where on earth did the day go?” He started packing his things together so that he could be in good time for the evening meal. It was whilst he was doing this, that he noticed something within the reeds, so he waded out to make an inspection. It was a small, and rather ancient boat half-submerged in the water. Without too much difficulty, he rotated it sideways until it was upside down. Once the weight of water in it had been removed, he was able to drag it to dry land. On first inspection it seemed rather rotten, but a few firm kicks proved it to be otherwise, so an idea began to form.

Time was now getting decidedly late, so he hastily lifted up his things – but in doing so – the fishing gaff caught on some rushes. Tugging rather too hard to free it, he landed flat on his back and the freed gaff flailed backwards, taking a small piece out of the tip of his left ear in the process.

“Damn!” he yelled, thinking the damage to be more serious and clamped a handkerchief to his ear. Back at the water pump, he gave himself a tidy up before walking back to the house, as he had no wish to alarm the household with his blood-smeared face.

“Good evening to you,” said a voice that came from within the part-open door that Peter was just passing. “‘ow was the fishing?”

Popping his head around the door of the meat store, he saw that Mrs. Persill was just pulling the muslin-type material over the side of bacon, having just cut off the rashers for the following morning.

“I had a lovely day; anything I can do to help?” he enquired.

“Well, if it’s not too much bother, perhaps you’d like to see if the ‘ens have laid any eggs under the ‘edge there. It’ll be dark before I get a chance and by then, a fox will ‘ave found them.”

Within fifteen minutes he was back in the house, proudly displaying eight lovely brown eggs nestling inside of his hat.

“Looks like one of the fish got the better of you,” said Mr. Persill, looking at Peter’s mutilated ear. William’s eyes opened wide at the imagined battle between this stranger and the denizen of the deep.

At that moment, Mrs. Persill returned from the meat store.

“I’ve cleaned your fish and laid them in salt. I’ll cook them in the morning and you can take some with you in your packed lunch.”

“I caught them for all of us,” he replied, “there will be plenty more if today was anything to go by, only next time, I won’t make the mistake of taking the gaff with me – I’ll get the fish out of the water with the net – it’s less dangerous!”

The following morning, everyone was surprised when Peter enquired about the old canoe paddle which lay amongst the bric-a-brac by the old cowshed, and had been there for as long as they could remember. They were even more mystified when he took it with him.

Sometime later, and looking worse than it did before, the little boat was once again afloat. Peter climbed in gingerly with his belongings, and sat there for a while to see if the lake was going to come in and join him. Ten minutes seemed long enough to convince him that it wasn’t going to, so fishing was done in all sorts of new and successful places for the rest of the day.

That evening, Mrs. Persill was quite amazed at what an old paddle could do to the fish catch; so many had arrived that it was going to be fish on the menu all round for several days. He felt a little guilty keeping quiet about the old boat and paddling around the mere all day, but he didn’t want them worried about him.

During the following day, he suddenly realised that there wasn’t a great deal of holiday left, as yet another fish went into the keep net. But his mind was on other things. Perhaps with lots of care, he thought, I might just make it to the island and back; it certainly invites investigation. Thirty minutes later, he stepped out of the boat and on to a small island that probably hadn’t been set foot upon since the ‘Great House’ existed. A few rotted posts marked the place where the old jetty had obviously once stood. An overgrown pathway led away from it and into the trees. It only took a few minutes to negotiate its length, despite the efforts of the rampant shrubbery to keep trespassers away.

The journey was more than worth all the effort, for standing there in all its dilapidated glory, was a beautiful old summerhouse. It was about twenty feet in diameter, covered by a green coppered roof that was supported by ornate iron pillars; its elevated hardwood floor was encircled by ornamental iron balustrading and reached by three iron steps from ground level. The structure had the appearance of a wonderful old bandstand; a few small remains of wooden latticework still adhered here and there, which had apparently enclosed its open spaces, perhaps for some densely growing perfumed roses to flourish on, the ancient remains of which, still littered the floor.

Further discovery revealed a small brick store nearby. Its perished wooden door hung drunkenly on one hinge, and then none, as it collapsed on touching it. The gloom soon revealed a most delicately designed lady’s chair, lightly constructed in metal. Two faded, but exquisite hand-embroidered cushions were fastened on the back and seat. It was a touching experience to look upon the elegance and beauty that would once have graced this place. He took the chair out and placed it on the summerhouse floor, as it must have been many times in the distant past.

He discovered a larger chair within the store, which he then placed some distance from the other one. Making himself comfortable on it he eased it a little to one side so that it was facing squarely towards the other. In his mind, he was trying to recapture some feeling of the place and those that would have used it all that time ago. He thought about the latticework and how it would have looked, filled with scented roses and the scatterings of sunlight through their leafage on to the floor. He tried to visualise the ornamental ironwork in complementary colours to its surroundings, and the pathway as it would have been, neatly bordered by the bright summer flowers as it meandered down towards the sturdy wooden jetty, that he imagined would once have been there. The more that he let go of the present, the less of a stranger he became amongst the images that he was making.

Just for a tiny moment there was a feeling that he might have dozed off.

“I have!” he exclaimed out loud, and was astonished when a voice answered him back.

“You obviously fell asleep,” said a quiet, well-educated voice. His startled eyes opened wide at the sight of a young lady who was now sitting in the chair opposite, which a second ago was completely empty. She was dressed as if ready to step into a Regency stage play.

“Ye-yes,” he fumbled, surprised that the lady seemed to know him. Then something else caught his eye. On his fingers, were several elaborate and expensive rings and fine, white lace cuffs protruding from the ends of his sleeves. All of these things were a mystery to him. He returned a smile to the woman in, as relaxed a manner as he could, given the peculiar circumstances and hoped it would not be the prelude to some expected dialogue, but instead, she merely sighed contentedly and picked up a small wooden frame from the side of her chair. The frame supported a tightly-stretched tapestry and as she swung it around onto her lap, he caught sight of a magnificent mansion within splendid gardens sewn upon it.

“I’ll just finish this Simon,” she said, selecting some coloured threads, (he almost said, ‘Who on earth is Simon?’ but thought better of it) “and I shall be ready to return to the house when you....”

Her voice was interrupted by a loud crash from somewhere behind Peter. He turned quickly to discover the cause and saw a large wood pigeon making a hasty departure, having been badly let down by the old tree branch that now lay dejectedly on the ground, but something was wrong. His view was no longer obstructed by the dense wall of roses that had been there a split second ago. With equal speed, he turned back towards the young woman, but his eyes were met by an empty chair.

He took a few moments to compose himself. “What an incredibly lucid dream,” he said aloud. “Imagination can play some very strange tricks in lonely places.”

Being a tidy person, Peter returned both chairs to the place where he first found them and was about to leave, when his eyes fell quite by accident on a little wooden frame. Some perished remains of tapestry, now denuded of imagery were hanging limply within it, except for one small faded segment, on which he could see part of a grand mansion and garden.

There was quite an extensive time lapse before he managed to get his mind back into the kind of order that he had once been familiar with. The word cryptomnesia had come to his salvation.

Of course, he thought, I must have unconsciously noticed the faded picture and frame when I first entered the store, which then set the scene for my dream. Peter contented himself with that rational explanation, until he noticed the handle of a lady’s decayed handbag lying just inside the brick store. As he bent down to investigate its contents, a beautiful silver-edged, glass covered miniature spilled out; it was the hand-painted picture of the young lady with whom he had just exchanged words.

After returning to the cottage, he made a vow never to divulge his secret to anybody.

“You’re very quiet,” said Mrs. Persill at dinner, “I think you’ve been wearing yourself out tramping around those fishing places all day and every day.”

“I’m sure you’re right, I think it will be an early night for me if that’s alright.”

The view from the bedroom window was the same as any other night, just Mr. Persill digging away. No wonder he has nothing to say; the poor man is always working, he thought. He lay awake for a long time. It was dark and the whole house was quiet and asleep when he reached for his lighter and applied it to the wick of the candle. The flame wavered for an instant and then steadied, bringing the room into