Step into the Rainbow - Colin R Brookfield (best selling autobiographies TXT) 📗

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 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