Secret Of Juke's Oak

Kate Reseigh

Description

Tom is on holiday from school during a long, hot summer sometime in the early 1970s. While on an errand for his mum he saves Charles Bradwell from drowning in the local quarry and finds that he has gone back in time to the mid-1660s to just after the end of the Civil War and the rule of Oliver Cromwell. When Tom's cousin Matilda turns up unexpectedly, Tom, Matilda, Charles and his brother James team up to explore Juke's Farmhouse. They make an exciting discovery that will have consequences long into the future! Tom makes an astonishing discovery at the end of the adventure that turns everything he thought he knew on its head.

Informations

• Publié par: Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
• Date de parution: 06 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781398448919
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

T he S ecret O f J uke’s O ak
Kate Reseigh
Austin Macauley Publishers
2023-01-06
The Secret Of Juke’s Oak About the Author Dedication Copyright Information © Acknowledgement Chapter One Tom Chapter Two Margaret Chapter Three Charles Chapter Four Edward Chapter Five James Chapter Six Matilda Chapter Seven Damaris
About the Author
Kate Reseigh is a qualified mental health nurse who lives and works in Canterbury, Kent.
She started writing seriously in about 2018, although the idea for her first book, The Secret of Juke’s Oak , came from a walk she took with her cocker spaniel, Sasha, in 2014.
Kate is currently writing her second novel, Death Walks in the Shadows , and has plans for a third as well.
A member of a local creative writing class, Kate also enjoys visiting her local theatre, exploring Kent and further abroad whenever she can.
Kate Reseigh is a pseudonym.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the memory of my mum, JLR, who would have loved to read, criticise and make numerous and helpful suggestions as to how I could improve this story.
Copyright Information ©
Kate Reseigh 2023
The right of Kate Reseigh to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, 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.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781398448902 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781398448919 (ePub e-book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published 2023
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd ® 1 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5AA
Acknowledgement
I am particularly grateful to Kimberley, my creative writing tutor, and also to the members of our creative writing group in Canterbury who have given me so much encouragement, support and advice on how to develop the story and to help me publish this book, for which I will always be thankful.
Chapter One Tom
That sultry summer day when Tom saved Charles Bradwell from drowning in the old quarry had begun much like any other. At the moment, Tom had repeatedly thought, everyday seems much like any other . The school holidays loomed ahead of him like an eternity. Tom would usually have been glad to have six whole weeks with no history lessons; living in this large house though, with only his mum for company, and no children of his age nearby, made Tom almost, but not quite, want to go back to school in September.
“Tom…TOM!” shouted his mum upstairs one afternoon. “Could you go into the village for me? This parcel must go in tomorrow’s post or it won’t get there by Monday. Oh… there you are! You can get yourself some sweets, or something cold as it’s been so hot today, and you can buy a comic too, if you want one. I know you like The Tiger . Here’s a pound note. Please bring me back the change, if there’s any left.”
Tom walked at an easy pace down the lane that led to the village of Wycherly. He could feel the money safely stored in his shorts and spent some time thinking contentedly about whether to choose a lolly or ice-cream and the comic he could read in bed this evening.
Mrs Haskins’ post office was just like the picture on Tom’s birthday tin of chocolates of what an old-fashioned sweet shop might look like, with numerous jars ranged along the shelves on the back wall that were filled with a whole rainbow of colours. Blue and purple whirlers; red, yellow and green traffic lights; white snowballs and Tom’s absolute favourite, orange fizzlers. There were apple drops wrapped inside paper twists, mint chocolates in pale-green bags and lemon lollipops on sticks that Tom knew lasted forever, and dozens of sweets that he hadn’t even tasted yet, but planned to, one day.
Tom eventually chose an ice-cream as his mum had proposed. After some careful consideration, he selected a raspberry and chocolate nut-crunch and picked up the latest copy of The Tiger .
Once Tom had put Mum’s most important parcel in the letter-box, and made sure the comic and change were secure in his pocket, he then found the lowest part of the church wall to rest and relish this unexpected treat. Tom did not want to go back home while he was eating, in case Mrs Jenkins was walking her collie. Tom thought Alfie was a fantastic dog, but Alfie liked any food he could find, and Tom knew he would be unlikely to win a fight with the dog which always became wildly excitable whenever he saw anyone with anything edible.
Tom sat there, enjoying the mid-afternoon sun and making his surprise last as long as he possibly could. He watched Mrs Jolly, who lived next door at 2 Honeypot Lane approaching slowly up the hill, heading for the village shop.
“Hello there, Tom. Are you enjoying your school holidays?” asked Mrs Jolly, stopping with a sigh in front of him, and puffing slightly.
“I am, thanks. Do you like this scorching weather?”
“No, I do not , young man. It’s all too much for me . I’m going home for a nice cup of tea, and to put my feet up.”
“I’ll come round sometime next week, Mrs Jolly,” Tom assured her.
“Make sure you do, Tom. I’m going to make two huge chocolate cakes at the weekend; my four sons and their families are coming to see me on Wednesday, as it’s my birthday. Say hello to your mum for me.”
“I will, and goodbye. I’ll see you soon.”
Tom finished the nut-crunch at last, and after brushing away a few crumbs, realised that he had better be going home. Mum will be making tea anytime now. She’ll be cross, Tom was sure, if I’m not there to eat it.
Tom waved to Ted Bertram who owned Bartle’s Farm and would often let Tom fish or swim in his pond, and turned left onto the footpath to make his way home. I better not stop today , Tom decided, regretfully. He liked to look in the hedgerows, when he had the chance, to see if he could spot any late-nesting birds or a hedgehog ambling along at dusk searching for another juicy worm. When he had been out early one morning last week, he had seen a fox, carefully stalking an unsuspecting rabbit.
Once Tom had left the village street, and turning onto the Old Path had gone past the ancient oak tree, which the locals called Juke’s Oak, everything unexpectedly became quiet and still. The traffic driving through the village was muted and it was now no more than a soft hum. The wind had calmed and it was scarcely a soft breath on Tom’s cheek. Even the birds seemed to have disappeared. There was a tractor on the horizon that was making a smudge of dust in the air, although Tom could not hear the engine chugging nor the crows cawing as they lazily followed the plough turning over the parched and dusty earth.
Suddenly, Tom was certain that he heard a faint shout. It seemed to come from a long way away. Tom stood absolutely motionless and listened intently for a while, but there was nothing more, and Tom began to think he had imagined it. Tom continued walking home; he was hoping that his mum might make one of his favourites, chicken pie, for tea.
As Tom stepped over the roots of a large willow with its trailing arms that drooped, forming a green, impenetrable curtain, he glanced down and to his great surprise saw that there was a gap near the foot of the tree’s wide trunk. Tom had been along this path many times; however, he was sure that he had never seen this before. The space was narrow, with the soil at the base and the bough of a hawthorn at the top, that left a shape like a wide post-box, partly hidden by the willow’s gently swaying branches. On the other side, he could see that the sloping terrain fell away, suddenly. Tom couldn’t imagine what was below.
Tom lingered, trying to decide whether he would be able to explore, then he suddenly heard another shout, much closer this time and clearer.
“Help!” it called feebly. “ Help me !” There was real fear in that voice.
Without stopping to think, Tom sat down and squeezed himself into the small gap. It was a tight fit and he had to lie flat on his back and take a deep gulp of air to make sure he could push himself between the solid ground and the unyielding, spiky bough of the hawthorn tree.
Tom’s sleeve caught on something sharp and he stopped abruptly; his mum would be annoyed if he tore his clothes. He carefully freed himself from the prickly thorns and quickly wriggling further into the opening, Tom then slid down the steep slope until he was clear of the tangled undergrowth and could stand.
Tom looked around in surprise. He had no idea that this was here…it seemed to be an old, disused quarry, with almost vertical sides that had small, sparse bushes and grasses growing out at bizarre angles. Halfway down, Tom could see water – slow-moving and muddy, and in the middle of that water, there was someone with fair-hair clinging to a half-submerged tree stump with one hand and waving frantically with the other.
“Help me,” he feebly repeated, noticing Tom. “I cannot swim; I am going to drown. Please , please help me .”
“Hold on!” yelled Tom. “ I’m coming .”
Tom searched desperately for something that he could use to drag the frantic boy towards him, but Tom could not find anything helpful within reach and with another gurgled cry coming from the half-submerged head, just above the sluggishly swirling silt, Tom hastily removed his tee-shirt and sandals and jumped in. Tom was an experienced swimmer, but even he was surprised by how c