Beyond the Cattle Arch

Harris M.Ed John David

Description

In the summer of 1947, John Harper and his girlfriend Jill are driving along the south coast on their way to lectures at Brighton Art College. Suddenly, a forbidding black cloud moves in from the sea and envelopes them, leaving them powerless to escape. Actually an immense area of gravitation, the malevolent mass has the effect of transporting Jill back to 1887. Bewildered and alone, Jill must now make a life for herself. Desperately wanting to return home, she must also be careful to maintain the secrecy of her past - especially in a strict society where 'madness' can lead to incarceration. Her sanity is barely preserved by the friendship of a local minister's wife. When Jill meets handsome and wealthy landowner Mr Gregson, it is clear he has one thing on his mind: her hand in marriage. Despite everything, she cannot help growing fond of him. With seemingly no way of returning home or being reunited with John, and with a luxurious lifestyle on offer, she accepts his proposal. But when all finally seems to be falling into place, she is suddenly given an opportunity to return to 1947 - and her first love...

Sujets

• Science fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 28 août 2018
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781789012293
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Beyond the Cattle Arch


John David Harris M.Ed
Copyright © 2018 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: 978 1789012 293

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.


Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd
In loving memory of my mother and father,
John & Violet, who faithfully served the people of Portslade between 1918 and 1952.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 1
THE beautiful SUMMER of 1947 had slowly matured into an early golden autumn and the first rays of a new morning sun heralded yet another glorious day. As it slowly rose above the neighbourhood rooftops, the last shades of night fled away towards the east while the low sunlight sent long fingers of shadow across the narrow little streets. It was about 7.30am and the small terraced properties stood quiet yet expectantly as their windows reflected the early morning brilliance. Local pigeons resting high up among the chimney stacks remained hushed and, somehow, subdued, oblivious to the radiance that was creeping up on them. Only the slight movement and gentle cooing of a few indicated any sign of life in the whole neighbourhood.
It was Tuesday 7 th October and at this early hour not even a gentle breeze disturbed the stillness but inevitably the tiny streets gradually became more active, with the first real sign of life being the local milkman as he went about his rounds. Always on time, his faithful customers appreciated his reliability with many of them having been with him for longer than they would care to remember. His real name was Jack Harper but he was sometimes affectionately referred to as ‘Bottles’. The local people saw him as almost a permanent part of their environment.
Being a First World War veteran sergeant, he was perhaps more appreciative than most of the tranquillity afforded by early morning daybreak. In fact, he would even sometimes stop in the middle of his work and gaze up at the blue untroubled skies and compare them with those that had looked down on the Somme area in France on that first fateful day of July 1916. Although almost an unbelievable forty years ago, he still remembered it as the start of a battle unprecedented in human history for its ferocity and loss of life. On that occasion, the heavens were suddenly rent with exploding artillery shells which had defaced the blue with great drifting black clouds of cordite.
By now, however, he had been at work since well before dawn and paused for a moment to rest on the handlebars of his old delivery bike. Strapped to the front of this ancient contraption was a metal crate which, when fully loaded, could make for heavy going.
Jack had been a local tradesman in the area since his army discharge in 1917 and was familiar with virtually every street and alleyway for miles around. Although, at the moment, he was moving along Gordon Road towards his little general store and dairy yard, which were situated at the corner and where he lived with his beloved wife Violet and their two children, John and Margaret. Almost certainly named after General Gordon of Khartoum , this particular road was very much his home patch.
In addition to the delivery of milk to virtually every front door in the vicinity, he could also recite the names and occupations of the residents, together with a lot more if he chose to do so, for gossip constituted common currency across the counter of his shop. Scandal, however, held little interest for him although he tolerated it knowing it went with the business.
Deep in thought, he suddenly found himself interrupted by a cheery voice:
“You’ll never get the job done like that, young Jack!”
The milkman turned to recognise the familiar figure of one of his neighbours. Unheard, Mr Grimshaw, the local glazier, had just emerged from number 11 and was obviously on his way to start another day’s work.
“Jim!” retorted the roundsman good-humouredly. “If I were to exchange this old boneshaker for your little van, then I’d get my work finished in half the time.”
“Sorry Jack,” grinned his neighbour. “That might sound an attractive idea, but I think I’ll just stick with the status quo thanks.”
Then, with a wry smile, he climbed into his little black trades van and pulled away. But it left a perplexed Jack wondering how on earth he could afford such a luxury in the austerity of post-war Britain.
After the brief encounter, he allowed his gaze to wander over the familiar street, which, he had to admit, was far from inspiring. Bright sunlight failed to conceal the prevailing drabness. If anything, it served to highlight the dreariness. Grey slate roofs and monotonous grimy brickwork were relieved only in part by the odd late summer rose. Even the narrow pavement was a dark, dull tarmac colour and held together with numerous patches and repairs which bore stark testimony to a lack of public money or the local district council’s indifference.
In fact, many residents had long been thoroughly dissatisfied with the shabbiness and were acutely aware of living in what they considered to be the deprived part of town. In a sense, theirs was a justifiable grievance, for Portslade was an urban area effectively divided in two by a steep east-to-west railway embankment. Unquestionably, the area above the line enjoyed the higher standard of living, with housing which far surpassed the cramped conditions of Jack’s vicinity. Why such a division of prosperity existed seemed an open question, and was a frequent topic of discontent in his little shop.
However the embankment constituted more than just a social partition, for it physically restricted residents’ movements and had an adverse effect on trade. Although, with customers located everywhere, Jack had overcome the problem by making use of a small dark tunnel which passed directly under the railway. Situated close to his business premises, it allowed for the access of his trades bike but very little else. Larger vehicles had no alternative but to skirt their way round the edge of the town.
Known locally as the ‘Cattle Arch’, it was also a well-recognised landmark while, at the same time, enjoying a rather unsavoury reputation. Gloomy and forbidding even in broad daylight, its dank, cave-like interior could only be accessed down a long narrow twitten. Over the years, its very isolation had made it a haunt for latter-day spivs and other undesirables. Worse, it seemed completely off-limits to the local sanitation department; an inhibition not shared by the local dog population. Jack had never been quite sure why it was located in its current position but he did know it long predated the present town and assumed it had been built to comply with the dictates of some ancient right of way.
The tradesman, however, lived with a very real sadness, for although he thoroughly enjoyed his work and the interaction it afforded with his customers, he nevertheless wrestled with an insoluble emotional problem over his wife’s unhappiness with having to live in such a run-down locality and her desire to live in the countryside among the fields and the trees. Unfortunately his hands were financially tied and there was little he could do. Sometimes he would bitterly recall her words, “We do not live as we’d like to, Jack, do we? But as we must.” Every time he thought of the sadness in her voice, it turned the screw just that little bit tighter. Their living, however, depended on the location of his business, and with tens of thousands of young men returning to the job market at the end of World War Two, he knew that any other form of employment at his age would be out of the question.
The agonising dilemma was all the more painful because his wife was not only the great love of his life, but also his loyal and best friend who had stood by him through all the hardships of the war years. Moreover, while away on his rounds, she would hold the fort behind the counter of his little shop for hours on end. It was with these sombre thoughts that he endeavoured to pull himself together and return to base. There was, however, just one last call at number 6 to collect Mrs Miller’s empties. Then his round would be complete.
Jack had often thought of this particular customer as being somewhat eccentric, for her sole purpose in life seemed to revolve around the welfare of the local pigeon population. Over a period, flocks of these birds had gravitated towards Gordon Road and Jack reckoned that, by now, they would pr