The Collectors Book Six: Black Gold (The Collectors Series 6) (27 page)

              She shut down the engine.

              As a team they stowed the sails and washed the deck with fresh water. In thirty minutes they returned to the club house.

              “There you are, Petros,” bellowed the commodore, a short but muscular man who constantly smiled. You surprised me by keeping your genoa and you beat me. First time for a long while.”

              “I was lucky.”

              “Luck be damned. You sailed a great race, and won fair and square. Would you like to join the club team? We need men with guts.  You’ll need another crew member as your daughter’s too young.”

              “What do you think, Alysa?”

              She paused. “Papa, we are the team.”

              The commodore laughed. “Like her father. Come on, I mustn’t be late presenting you with the cup.”

              The bar was full when the commodore, followed by Petros and his crew, entered.

              A hush enveloped the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, this year I have not as usual won my cup. Petros Kyriades and his team gave me a sound thrashing.  Petros, please come onto the stage to receive the cup. Oh, I forgot, you can’t take it away. As soon as your name is engraved it returns to the club cabinet.”

              Alysa held her father’s hand as they stepped onto the stage.

              The commodore on seeing Alysa grinned. “I now have great pleasure in presenting the winner’s trophy to the youngest member of the crew.” He bent and gave Alysa the cup. “Have you anything to say, young lady?”

              She grimaced. “If you don’t take it back I’ll drop it. It’s heavy.”

              The room rang with laughter.

Under the Covers

A Collection of Short Stories

From Ron A Sewell

The Quarrel

Ten days of constant bombardment stopped. The third battle of Ypres began.

              Major John Higgins, Royal Marines, glanced around the dugout, labelled by the troops,
The Ritz
. The dull light from the solitary lamp did nothing to dispel the gloom as he faced his officers. He spoke precisely. “It’s time.”

              With faces as dismal as the morning sky, the group walked out into the pouring rain.

              The men waited in an unearthly silence. John removed his pistol as the shrill of hundreds of whistles signalled the advance. Bloody marvellous, he thought, every Hun for miles will know we’re coming. A similar scene unfolded in the miles of sodden trenches as officers led their men into no-man's-land. As a rolling wave, the infantry advanced into the storm.

              With the aid of a mirror on a stick, John looked left and right. The next line was ready. Through the drifting smoke he saw the wounded crawling in the mud, screaming, dying. Bewildered men stood and staggered until cut down by the next swathe of bullets.

              The whistles blew again and with a haughty, “Come on chaps,” John led his men over the top.

***

Twenty miles east of the Devil’s Bowl in Sussex stands a Tudor farmhouse, John’s home. Mentally, he prepared himself for the hostile greeting. His father, a life-long pacifist, hated him for being in the military. The autumn night closed in and the distant storm clouds scudded across the sky.

              Greg, John’s father, opened the door, saw him and went to close it.

              John’s right foot prevented it from shutting. “Father, please. It’s time we settled our differences.”

              Greg glared at his son. “I suppose you’d better come in but you can’t stay.”

              John followed his father into the large comfortable lounge. Frustrated by the bitterness, he knew time had not healed the wounds.

              With an almost imperceptible shrug, Greg asked, “Why are you here? May God have mercy on you.”

              Angry, John said, “I know you don’t see it the way I do. Sometimes I think we talk a different language but this is the war to end all wars.”

              The farm dogs barked noisily and scratched on the kitchen door sensing John was there.

              “And what’s the ribbon on your chest?” asked his father.

              Thinking it the wiser option, John played his medal down. “It’s a Distinguished Service Order. They gave it to me as a reward for doing my duty.”

              “What do you know about duty? Your duty is here, with me, on the farm.”

              “You’ve no idea what it’s like. No army has ever served in such conditions, the freezing mud and relentless rain. We fight for peace and I’m proud to be part of it.”

              Thrown off guard, he said, “Your mother, God bless her, believed the same as I and for the life of me, why you want to go and try and get yourself killed I’ll never know. I have friends in high places who could arrange your discharge.  This farm needs a younger man. It needs you.”

              John searched his father’s face for something, a glimmer of acceptance, anything.

              “Are we winning this war?” his father asked.

              John answered without hesitation. “Winning, no one’s going to win. The world will run out of soldiers before that happens.” He groped for words. “It’s such a bloody waste. We gain no ground and good men die in the process.”

              “John, you can try and prove me wrong on every aspect of this war,” his voice faltered, “but I’ve always thought the men who love war were glory hunters. Maybe I’ve been wrong, it’s good, brave men who give their lives, men like you. I can’t change what I believe, that would take more time than I have.” He shivered as cold surrounded him. “I’m pleased you came. Keep in touch when you can. I’d like that.”

              The deluge started with flash of lightning, and a crash of thunder. The lounge lights dimmed, and went out.

              “Damn this weather. Don’t move. I’ll find the candles.”

              With a taper from the fire, he lit three candles and placed them around the room. As the last one nestled in its holder, there was a hammering on the door. Greg muttered under his breath and moved to open it.  The rain lashed at the wearer of a post office uniform, his cape barely protecting him.

              “Telegram, sir. You need to sign.”

              Greg looked at this soaking wet boy then at the piece of paper. “You have the wrong address.”

              “It says Mister Higgins, Tudor Farm. This is the farm and you’re Mr Higgins.”

              Greg signed and watched the lad push his bike along the muddy track. He closed the door on the weather and turned. “John.”

              He stopped, the flickering candles shone on a quiet, empty room.

My Girl

I love children, preferably other people’s, but many years ago, one young lady, who was to say the very least different, changed my life.  My ambition was to be a millionaire by my fortieth birthday and, in my pursuit of this goal, Keevil House was added to my property portfolio. This old house was purchased by auction in London and I should have realised, being the only bidder, something was not right. Overjoyed at my good fortune, I ignored the warnings. From the literature supplied, it would seem it had been empty since the end of World War Two, during which period it had been used as a children’s home.  However, according to the blurb, its previous owners made sure it remained wind and watertight. This property would be the grand addition to my exclusive hotel group. 

              One week after the auction, a letter landed on my desk from the firm of solicitors in Dunfermline, acting with the sale of Keevil House.  They requested I visit them to sign all the relevant documentation and complete the transaction. 

My objective was all embracing. I’d travel to Scotland, complete the deal, visit the site and prepare a rough sketch of the alterations required for my architect and builder. My journey by car was uneventful.  A local hotel proved suitable for my needs and I booked in for two nights’ bed and breakfast. The next morning the weather, as described by the hotel receptionist, was dreek which I gathered in English meant wet and horrible.  With little choice, I ventured forth, found the solicitors and was warmly greeted.  The paperwork was ready for my signature and I duly signed.  I requested that all services were to be connected as soon as possible and they agreed to assist in this matter.

Leaving their offices with explicit directions, I went in search of my new acquisition.  I hoped to finish my survey in one day and travel south the next morning.  I was excited by the thought of what lay ahead.  In the pouring rain, I found myself driving up and down narrow country lanes for two hours before finally finding the entrance to the manor.

The gate house seemed too good to be true. In front of me was a substantially built three bedroom bungalow in its own hedge-bordered plot.  This would be ideal for my new manager.  A quick look around determined it needed work, mainly decorative, and it would be more than acceptable.

Time was passing and I drove on.  At the end of a long, meandering, overgrown, tree-lined drive stood the manor house.  A silence from years of abandonment surrounded it.  My first impression of this Victorian relic was one of amazement; this spacious old mansion had been given over to loneliness and echoes of the past. 

My decision to buy had been the right one. While parking my car, immediately to my right were a number of small headstones surrounded by a mixture of wild flowers.  Curious, I wandered over to those nearest. Someone must have loved animals for it appeared these were the final resting places of the family pets.   

I walked around the exterior of the building. There were weathered streaks on the walls and cracks in the paintwork but beyond its forsaken appearance, there seemed to be structurally nothing wrong. The walled garden was overgrown but not irrecoverable.

              Heading towards the main entrance, I inserted the key and was pleasantly surprised to find it turned easily in the lock.  Pushing the huge door open, there in front of me was a beautiful pillared and mirrored hallway.  This place had the splendour and spaciousness of a great mansion.  Looking forward, a broad, once carpeted, staircase rose in a majestic sweep to the upper floor.  As I stood there admiring what was mine the main door slammed shut with an almighty crash that echoed through the empty rooms and passages. 

Through the worn shutters, filtered sunlight cast strange flickering shadows.  For a moment I shivered but with plenty of work to do, I told myself standing there would achieve nothing.  With clipboard and pen in hand, I began my survey.  To my left was the main dining room; its bare walls and boarded-up fireplace showed years of neglect.  The most bizarre thing was the number of broken children’s toys scattered everywhere. While making copious notes, from the hall came a strange thumping sound. Intrigued, I retraced my steps.  One tread at a time, a child’s large multicoloured ball bounced down the stairs. When it reached the bottom, it rolled to a stop in the middle of the floor. Having no idea why this happened, I gave it a hefty kick to one side and continued with my report.  Apart from those discarded toys, the rooms were empty.

The ballroom was wonderful with its high, ornate copular, radiating light into every corner; even the marble fireplace was original.  Briefly, I imagined what it would be like in the winter with large logs blazing in the hearth. 

From behind me I heard a squeaking sound. I turned and saw a tricycle trundling across the floor. Closer examination revealed its wheels were seized solid.  Whatever I thought I’d seen could only have been my imagination or a trick of the light.

In the eaves above the ten spacious bedrooms, were the original servants’ quarters.  Climbing the narrow staircase that led to them, I felt something intangible.  The creepy atmosphere communicated eerie feelings. An aroma of evil deeds made my head whirl, my nerves tingle and hair rise.  On reaching the top of the narrow wooden stairs, I could hear children laughing as they played but in the background there were screams of terror.  Closing my eyes and shaking my head, the sounds disappeared. Each of the rooms was small, with broken furniture littering the floors and cracked mirrors hanging from rusty nails.  To me this part of the house was terrifying, depressing and dismal.  My notes designated the whole area, ‘Useful for storage’.

I returned along the corridor from which every bedroom led off. Each door was shut.  Strange, but I’d left them open to let air circulate and assumed they closed automatically as a fire stop.

My next inspection was the library. Once in the main hallway, the hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle.  There was the distinct sound of someone saying, ‘Hello’. At the top of the stairs stood a barefoot girl, leaning on the banister staring at me. I never saw a sight so dreadful; all she wore was a tattered night dress.  As I moved towards her she ran away and, despite searching every room, no trace could be found.