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99 pages

English

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John Grant and his wife Susan are a middle-class couple who, after dropping off their ailing daughter at the children's department of St Richard's Hospital in Chichester, decide to visit the local auction rooms. They fall in love with and buy a beautiful scenic painting from the late 19th century which depicts a young boy fishing by the local River Arun.However, unbeknown to the couple, its origins lie deep in a calamity that happened long ago. And when they get it back to their farmhouse, it gradually begins to dawn that their beautiful picture is acting as a portal for past misfortunes, with the result that their lives and those of their children become progressively evermore of a hell.To make matters worse, their daughter's nanny feels her love for John is more than she can bear, and leaves without saying goodbye. John's sadness suddenly becomes intensified when, several years later, he learns she's dying of cancer. When he's finally informed of her flight to a clinic in Florida he realises he will never see her again. But then, despite all the odds, one definitive day, he does.

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Publié par	Troubador Publishing Ltd
Date de parution	28 mars 2020
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781838598488
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0200€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Copyright © 2020 John David Harris M.Ed.

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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ISBN: 9781838598488

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To my sister, Margaret.
’Til the dawn breaks.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Epilogue
Chapter 1
“IT’S SUCH A beautiful building,” murmured Susan as she turned to her husband.
He nodded while letting his gaze sweep up over the delicate and lofty vaulting of Chichester Cathedral, all the time being only too aware of the anxious tremor in his companion’s voice. This was hardly surprising for they had just left their six-year-old daughter at St Richard’s Hospital. She was their only child and needed a series of tests to diagnose the nature of her ongoing ill health, so in an attempt to alleviate Susan’s distress, her husband, John, had opted for a sight-seeing trip around the ancient city.
Still barely 9am, the early morning sunlight had transformed the great eastern window and its portrayal of various biblical saints into a sparkling symphony of jewel-like colours, while shafts of light from the clerestory windows set high above in the chancel walls reflected from a brilliant golden cross situated at the centre of the ornate altar.
But, despite all the architectural beauty, nothing seemed able to dispel the worry over their small daughter, and again Susan looked imploringly at the man by her side.
“Oh, John,” she whispered. “She will be all right, won’t she?”
Her husband, who shared the same concern, nevertheless knew he had to be strong for the woman he loved and chose his words with care.
“Well, she’s had these symptoms for some time, you know,” he observed gently. “And although they seem to come and go, she never gets very ill, and as I’ve said before, I think, possibly, that it’s all down to an allergy of some sort. So, if we could only strike the right balance with her diet...”
But then, lost for further words, he just placed a comforting arm around his wife’s shoulders.
Now in his early fifties, John had married Susan late in life. She was some twenty years his junior, and he viewed the arrival of their daughter, Miriam, as something of a bonus. But, shortly after her third birthday, she had developed distressing and recurring bouts of high temperature accompanied by severe stomach cramps, the result of which had been an endless succession of visits to their local health centre until, finally, he and his wife decided upon a thorough medical assessment of her condition at the private wing of St Richard’s Hospital.
Just a shade under six-foot-two and of strong physique, John was by nature a gentle person, although, at the same time, not someone to be crossed lightly – qualities which had originally attracted his wife, and despite their age difference, they had, from the first, been a devoted couple.
John met her shortly after taking early retirement from teaching when increasing demands of the profession had made the job virtually intolerable while Susan, on the other hand, was still commanding a successful career as a housing officer in the Mid Sussex town of Horsham. A woman of style and intelligence, John had immediately been taken with her strong personality but all the while being only too aware of the need to establish a new venture of his own. However, being a retired art teacher and in his mid-forties, he had been at a loss to know just how this could be achieved. But then the new woman in his life had proved invaluable and now they ran a thriving property business, although, sadly, up to the present, mere prosperity had seemed of little help to their young daughter.
Turning away from the delicately carved altar, they slowly made their way down the nave past the elaborate choir stalls and towards the grand twelfth century west door. Gently taking his wife’s hand, John paused for a moment to take a last look around the magnificent Norman and early English-style cathedral.
“Nine hundred years old and still absolutely beautiful,” he breathed. “You know, when this was built, national values were somewhat different to what they are now. The emphasis in those days was on the quality of workmanship and the finished article rather than time and motion and the size of the pay packet.”
Failing to get response, he bent down to look at his more diminutive wife, but from her worried expression he rather doubted if anything he’d said had even registered − a fact amply reinforced when she eventually spoke.
“John, you’re quite sure we shouldn’t have remained at the hospital? I mean, if anything were to go wrong...”
“Well, you heard what the specialist said, love. There was nothing to be gained by just hanging around in that waiting room the whole morning and drinking endless cups of their free coffee.” He pulled a face before adding cynically, “Only, it’s not free of course, is it. With their medical fees, it’s more like a grand a cup, and those out-dated magazines! God knows how many fingers have thumbed their way through that lot.”
“John!” interrupted his wife with a touch of irritation. “Can’t you see how worried I am about Miriam?”
He squeezed her hand.
“Of course I can, love,” he assured her. “I was only trying to lighten the mood a bit. In any case, we’ll be picking her up around mid-day, and you never know there may be some good news. Also, don’t forget, if there’s even the slightest problem, the nurse promised to contact us on my mobile phone. Although, I must say, when I insisted on it she seemed to think I was being a bit OTT.”

Emerging out into the strong spring sunshine, they crossed the spacious lawns surrounding the cathedral and approached West Street where John stopped for a final appraisal of the Norman workmanship.
“The hands that laid those stones have long since gone,” he observed philosophically.
“Well, they might have done, but ours are still here,” retorted Susan. “So, are we going back to the hospital or what?”
“Well,” he replied tentatively. “I thought of visiting ‘Barrington’s’ in Chapel Street. They’re an auctioneer firm, and I believe their rooms are open today for a preview of the items in the next sale. They’re just round the corner so I wondered if you might like to take a look.”
His wife slipped her hand through his arm and looked up with a brief smile.
“All right then. Just to please you.”
And so, with her reluctant agreement, they turned into Chapel Street.

Barrington’s itself dated back to the fifteen hundreds. Built of Sussex flint, its church-like entrance allowed for access to the ground floor via several steps that led down from the pavement level.
Once inside they found it to be a spacious area lined with trestle tables that groaned under the weight of various antiques ranging from copper bed-warming pans to a myriad of kettles and china tea-sets, while around the perimeter there emanated the solemn rhythm of ticking from various grandfather clocks that stood in stately witness to the multitude of merchandise on display.
Above all though, there was a mustiness that pervaded the entire atmosphere and which John guessed was probably because most of the items originated from elderly people. And he couldn’t avoid a certain sadness in knowing that the artefacts echoed the lifetimes of a past era. Wandering through the corridors of trestle tables, he gave vent to his thoughts.
“Well, you can bet your life that whoever owned this lot won’t have any further use for them.”
At this melancholy observation, his wife stopped dead.
“John, we all know that we don’t last forever but there’s no need to keep reminding ourselves of the fact. For heaven’s sake. Keep harping on about people and hands that aren’t here anymore. What’s got into you today?” She would have said more but, just at that moment, her attention became drawn to an oil painting above the auctioneer’s platform. “Oh. Isn’t that absolutely exquisite!” she exclaimed.
And, as John followed her gaze, he found himself looking at the picture of a young boy fishing from a riverbank and he had to agree the beauty of the composition was quite breathtaking. Portraying late autumn, it depicted a low sun which lit up a dazzling array of browns and golds which shone from the leaves of the trees lining the grassy slopes, while in turn the river gradually wound away in the direction of a distant valley set between low-lying hills.
Viewed against the auction room’s dark oak panelling, the guilt-framed painting with its azure blue sky reflecting in the gentle waters below seemed a whole different world of