Storyteller by Colin & Anne Brookfield (motivational novels for students txt) 📖

was looking quite pleased with himself.

Friends in the village were asking about Jed, as they hadn’t seen him for several weeks and they had heard about the trouble.

At the beginning of the fourth week, Lottie, who worked in the kitchen of the Great House, returned home to find Jed sitting in his chair, and on the table by the side of him stood a magnificent pair of gentleman’s boots.

“God’s truth! Not the vapours again,” he said as his emotional wife flopped down in her chair.

It was with great trepidation that Jed finally presented himself at the tradesman’s entrance of the estate mansion. One of the staff listened impatiently to Jed’s request for the boots to be delivered to Lord Landbury.

“Off with you; I’ll deal with it,” was the curt reply, and Jed hurried away.

That evening, Lottie heard the unusual sound of a horse drawn carriage pulling to a halt outside their front door, which was followed by a confident knock. Although it was obvious who it was, it was nevertheless a great shock to Lottie when she opened the door to reveal the figure of Lord Landbury himself.

“I would like to see Jed’s workshop,” he requested.

“We ain’t very posh for a gent like you. I ‘ave to say I’m a bit ashamed. As for the workshop, well we only ‘ave one table so ‘ee ‘as to use the uvver end of it.”

“Did I hear right?” Jed was asked. “One of my staff informed me that you actually made my new boots yourself, and now I’m being asked to believe they were made on this kitchen table.” He looked around the room. “I can’t believe it! They are the finest boots I have ever seen or worn. It doesn’t seem possible that you could accomplish it in a place like this.”

Jed uncovered some things in the corner of the room, exposing a small amount of leather, his working tools and a cobbler’s last.

“And over ‘ere sir,” he indicated, “are the remains of the clay moulds I took from yer old boots which is ‘ow I got yer new ones to be the right fit.”

“Well, this will be a fine tale to tell my friends,” replied Lord Landbury in amazement. “Nobody will believe it; I scarcely can myself. It seems that your dog Scruff has done us all a good turn. My estate manager Higgins, will call on you again tomorrow,” he said as he departed.

True to his word, Higgins called at Jed’s the next morning. Lord Landbury wished to see them both at the house immediately. When Jed and Lottie were ushered into his drawing room, he greeted them warmly and then told his manager to show them to their new cottage on the estate.

The new cottage was a lot larger, with a proper workshop. They were delighted, but before they left, Lord Landbury had a few last words.

“I shall of course be requiring quite a large selection of new boots and shoes from you for which, you will be handsomely paid. I shall see to it that you have your own business now, because my friends will also be waiting their turn in the queue – behind me of course. I know you will do well and I wish you and your good lady a happy future.”

The couple turned to leave just as the master added, “Oh, and make sure Scruff has all he needs, after all, he was the one that began our good fortune.”

Against all Odds *

Joan Underwood picked up the newspaper and turned a few lack-lustre pages until an item on the second page caught her eye.

Her grandmother (Hannah) was sleeping peacefully in her chair close-by; at her side lay a book, ‘The Old Prospector’ by Martin Troy. Her curiosity aroused, she quietly stepped over and picked up the book in which her grandmother had been so interested. Hannah, who was now approaching her eighties, seemed to have found characteristics in its story that in some way mollified the sad loss of her older brother William, who went missing in the 1930s.

William, who was 11 years older than Hannah, had been in the Merchant Navy which suited his adventurous nature, and his travels always brought back new stories. This had all changed on a fateful day when William was reported missing; he had not returned to his ship which was docked in Sydney Australia, and no more was ever heard of him.

Joan scanned the book preface. Martin Troy had indicated that his adventure had taken place in Queensland Australia in the late 1960s, and that the story was part of his autobiography. She then turned the page to the first chapter.

 

The Old Prospector

by Martin Troy

 

I had been awakened by strange noises and, half asleep, I fumbled my way towards the bedroom window. ‘Ting-ting’ it went again, followed by something splashing into water. It was five in the morning and the low-angled sun was already warm and bright, sketching the shadowed likeness of the tall ghost gum trees in crisp detail, across the close-cropped grass.

‘Ting-ting-ting’. The sound drew me back to the reason I was at the window but I couldn’t see the cause. Then a flicker of colour at the corner of my eye drew my attention towards the garden pond, and the solution to one of the strange sounds. The culprits were a pair of kingfishers that had occupied the ornamental bridge that spanned the pond and as I watched, they took turns diving in and out of the water.

‘Ting-ting’. The other noise seemed to be getting more urgent. Leaning a little further out of the window, I caught sight of the other culprit. It was a large butcherbird posturing angrily around the front wheel of my vehicle and pecking occasionally with great fury at its reflection in the chrome hubcap. The sound of a distant kookaburra then reminded me, it was time for their breakfast – and mine. Having scattered some small pieces of raw meat on the first floor veranda for the kookaburras, I retired to a quieter part of the house for morning coffee.

The silence was short lived; the feathered visitors had arrived. Apart from being very vocal, they also took extraordinary care that their food was thoroughly dead before it was eaten. The kookaburras would hop onto the veranda’s metal guard rail with a piece of the meat in their beaks, then beat the living daylights out of it on the rail, the way they would kill a small snake.

There were many reasons why I had chosen to live in this rather isolated spot. The wildlife was one, the surrounding lakes and woodlands, another. Perhaps it was also a reaction to years of urban life in England, which I had recently left. I was 21 years old and needed a bit of adventure, but for the immediate future, I had some time on my hands, and it would not be wasted.

I had planned to try my hand at digging for sapphires, at the gem fields west of Queensland’s Rockhampton. The map indicated that it was going to be a long journey and rough going in places. In the late 1960s, many outer city primary and secondary roads were still rough tracks, and many arterial roads could be as bad.

 

The sacrifice I had made for this trip was to sell my beautiful English Sunbeam Alpine sports car, which was white with red upholstery and hood. It had turned a lot of heads in Surfers Paradise, including the meter-maids in gold lamé bikinis that shopkeepers employed to protect their trade. However, for the 1200 mile journey I was about to embark on, I had exchanged my Alpine for a brand new Holden Ute and camper van, which had been loaded the night before. I nevertheless did a last minute check.

The canvas drinking water bags were in the coolest place, clipped to the ‘roo’ bumper (an Australian derivative of kangaroo) in front of the engine. Five jerry cans occupied some of the space inside the camper, three contained petrol and two, drinking water. The final items on the long list were the pick and shovel, toolbox, car jack and two spare tyres with their inner-tubes.

And so, I said a temporary farewell to my house and started the first four-mile leg of the journey that would connect me with the coastal Pacific Highway. It was still very early in the morning, which surprisingly would mean that the dirt track leading out of my area would be rather busy with local ‘inhabitants’ and they were known to be a little short on road sense.

As if to prove me right, I needed to brake sharply several times within the first quarter of a mile, to save reckless wallabies from self-destruction. A little later, I had to swerve around a large king-brown snake and then a Tipan, both of which had steadfastly refused to move from their sunny patches on the track. The least concerned (or so it seemed) were the goanna lizards. These came in all sizes, though most that I saw, were about three or four feet in length. They would scamper onto the track ahead, and all too often, stop dead in mid-action. This was their survival technique – adopting the exact resemblance of a piece of discarded tree branch, perfectly colour-matched with the dusty ground.

Having reached the Pacific Highway, I headed northwards through Surfers Paradise and onwards. Several hours later with Brisbane far behind, the dramatic silhouettes of the Glasshouse Mountains came into view on my left.

With the scenery occupying rather more of my attention than it should have done, I almost didn’t notice the turtle that was illegally parked right in the centre of the East Coast Highway, so I stopped and went to the rescue. Not being familiar with Australian fauna, but knowing that creatures tend to be well armed, I therefore picked it up from its sides, knowing that the biting bit tends to be at the front, or so I thought. As I was reuniting the turtle with the vegetation at the side of the highway, I caught sight of a glaring and indignant eye from between my fingers. My response was instantaneous and the poor creature did the last two feet in free-fall to the grass. So I had discovered that this particular variety had a very long neck, which could be wrapped around their side, concealed beneath the shell.

The long miles ahead passed uneventfully and it was pitch dark when I eventually camped for the night on the southern outskirts of Rockhampton.

The following morning I picked up the last supplies, as none would be available on the westward bush track towards Emerald. It was the last I would see of civilisation for several weeks. This part of the journey did little to lift the spirits; the track was rough and dusty and the surrounding vegetation sparse and stunted.

I camped in the bush that night, not that there was any alternative, but I felt quite secure with the benefit of my rifle. I might add that the rifle was never used against fauna, it was simply a safeguard in isolated places.

Breakfast was garnished with grey dust – as was everything else and I would just have