"THE STONE" Part 2 of 2.
RANDOM STORY #3b.
Cont from pt 1 Weds 4 Dec.
The chest had four locks.
“Hmmmm, that’s me Great Grandfather, Hmmmm…. Kimberley ? Name is familiar…. Hmmmm…. see if I can get it open in the morning”
Part Two.
Carforth pushed up the loft hatch, reached for the chest, gingerly lowering it to the tiny landing on which the ladder stood. There was no room for his feet. Stepping awkwardly off the ladder, he almost pitched himself down the steep, narrow stairwell. All a-tremble he maneuvered the damn thing down to the kitchen table. Panting, he sat a while on the only stool and stared, wondering “What the bloody ‘eck am aah doin’?” Presently, dawn filtered the grimy pane, prompting him to rise, switch of the bulb, light the kettle, rummage for tools.
Three locks eventually succumbed before the old hacksaw blade succumbed too. Time for a bit ‘o toast, ‘nother brew, ‘nother rummage. A blunt chisel tandemed with a too small hammer busted the final lock…… but….. the hinges were siezed “Bloody ‘Eckers !!” He shouted, surprising himself so much - he - Laughed - for the first time in years. He sat down again, stood up immediately, reached for a bottle of brown ale that had inhabited it’s shelf for years, downed it, felt dizzy, sat once more, until grim determination arrived…..
A couple of hammer whacks - one hinge fell off, whack, then the other, revealing a pair of leather-holstered pistols and many oilcloth pouches. One by one, Carforth carefully emptied them. Lots of assorted bric-a-brac, including a few medals; Bundles of old envelopes addressed to the Major, containing faded scribbles in English; Carved Ivory & Ebony Trikets; Numerous wildlife sketches, equally faded; Documents of what appeared to be Mining records, written in what Carforth guessed was Afrikaans or German. Apart from maybe the pistols, nothing of discernable value. By this time Carforth had reached to a level that offered lids above two lower compartments.
The Left compartment contained a Sam Browne wrapped in a cummerbund, A regimental peaked cap stuffed with ceremonial gloves, All sitting atop of a pair of fine tooled long leather riding boots, which fitted him well enough… “Bit too posh for me, round ‘ere, mebbe oor Ned ‘ud like ‘Em” Again he surprised himself, he’d not thought of his younger brother in ages…. He lifted the second lid…..
A great deal of padding had been insufficient to protect the glass display case. The remains of some stuffed small animal lay in the wreckage. The final straw for this day’s yoyo emotions, an end to his hopes for the Mill. Depressed and weary he cleared the table, dumping all but the boots and pistols in his ashbin. About to sweep, came a knock at the door. “Mr Carforth ? I’m Clara Johnson, I’m a social worker, can I come in for a minute” It wasn’t really a question. He nodded and shifted, perplexed, to one side. Projecting brisk professional concern she explained that he had only a week to leave his home, the street demolition was about to commence, the church and council couldn’t help, but the council’s solicitor had been authorized to pay out a tiny settlement for the compulsory purchase of his home. It would be enough for a van to move his stuff or for a few weeks in a lodging house.
Her back up action some day later was to ask the solicitor if Carforth had visited. He hadn’t so she went back to give him a stern talking to. The door was unlocked, the gas meter had run out of coin, but not before Garforth had taken his last long sleep, his head pillowed inside the oven.
In a middle class suburb of Birmingham, a plump, comfy middle aged couple were finishing their evening meal. “Ooh Edward, I nearly forgot, there’s a solicitor’s envelope come from Yorkshire, I’ll get it for you” Edward read in Disbelief “Bloody ‘Eckers, our Kid’s done topped ‘iself” “Ooh Edward Love, Why ?” “ ‘Ow the Eckers shud Aah know ! ain’ seen ‘im nigh on thotty odd year. Sez ‘ere they took a while ter find us, an I can claim ‘is belongins and a few quid fer ‘is ‘ouse.” “Ooh Love, we’d better send a wreath” “Too bloody late, ‘es been under near on two year already.” They sat quietly, each with their own thoughts. A few day later Ned caught the train to Huddersfield and back. Boots in a bag, cheque in his pocket, at the station he bought the afternoon edition of The West Yorkshire Daily Chronicle and Advertiser for his return journey, but fell asleep without reading.
Supper was on the table. Ned, not wanting to talk yet, laid the paper on the couch. Mrs Ned Carforth, having eaten already, picked it up. “Oooh Ned Love, it says here that a crystal that was found inside a mummified animal at the council dump has been declared the most valuable rough diamond in history. It has been sold for an undisclosed sum. Jim Frisby, the worker who found it was handsomely rewarded. Jim told our reporter that the money was enough to buy a large house and a brand new car !” “Bloody ‘Eckers ! Some people av all the Luck !!” “Oh Edward, I do so wish you’d stop swearing Love”
Authors Note:
Jim Frisby was a direct descendant of James Arbuthnot Friesby, an ex-Weslyan preacher who, together with Trebor Goddard, founded the Mancunior Tall Hat Temperance Brass Marching Band. Goddard was a forebear of David Rogers, with whom I prospected for gold and minerals. We swapped many a night-time yarn under canvas. Frisby was probably a forebear of mine - still digging for clearer links….. M.C.B.
Save a fortune on postage & Christmas wrapping paper (Smile at the thought !)
NeXt on Maurice’s Substack (Some Wednesdays).
ch Ch CH CHANGES, 18th Dec. A New Name and other developments at Maurice’s Substack and Scholarships at
WINTER BREAK: Maurice’s Historical Semi-Fiction returns on 13th January with Ancient Legend #15 “Viskergotten”.
A, B, C, + D (Dragons) #10, 20th Jan. “DragonFest Musings” By Norah Lloyd + Details of a competition at This Creative Adventure to give support to the ever expanding rise of Newbie Authors. A choice of two subjects with prizes.
NeXt on This Creative Adventure (Most Fridays).
T.C.A. #11, 13th Dec. “An interview with Julie Gabrielli” + “Naming Our First Educator at T.C.A. Scholarships”
Thankyou for being here again, I Love this atmosphere of mutual appreciation, the comments and engagement it brings. Tell me how you feel about that, Maurice.
A sad story. It reminds that fate is capricious, but also, the tragedy of the working class once again being handed the shitty end of the stick. A humbling story, quite moving.