The Miracle of Bean's Bullion

By Mark Trenowden

Whilst camping in Lunenburg County, Nova Scotia, Canada ‘Bird’ Doggley is spirited through time from 1962 to the present day. In his new world he
encounters the grandchildren of his best friend, Bobby Bean who are on
holiday from England. With their help and that of the mysterious Jonny Eagle they attempt to solve a local mystery of stolen gold bullion.

If this goes to plan, then there is the small matter of whether Bird will make it back to his own time. If he does will he change the course of history and future events?

Time will tell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Derwent Press
• Release date: May 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781846670435

Mark Trenowden

I was born in 1962. I attended Braeside School, The New Beacon School and Sevenoaks School. After gaining a degree in English and Fine Art I worked in the Wine Trade, in a Bank in Bangladesh, India and London and finally ended up teaching English, History and Cricket at Sussex House School in London. (Daniel Radcliffe was there while I was, it is my only claim to fame.) Since 2001 I have been a 'stay at home' Dad juggling the things on my wife's to-do-list, two children and a number of other projects. I love all sports particularly cricket which I play for a village team. I train at my local amateur boxing club and play Real Tennis at Hampton Court. My next story is about an Indian Cricketing Super-hero.

Book preview

The Miracle of Bean’s Bullion

A story set in Nova Scotia, Canada

Mark Trenowden

Copyright Mark Trenowden 2012.

Published by The Derwent Press at Smashwords

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This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Mark Trenowden has asserted his moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied or transmitted save written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who dos any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and claims for damages.

Paperback: ISBN 13:978-1-84667-041-1

Mobi (Amazon K indle): ISBN 13: 978-1-84667-042-8

epUB (Sony, Nook, Ipad): ISBN 13: 978-1-84667-043-5

Cover Artist: Adam Murray

Published in the UK by The Derwent Press.

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DEDICATION

In memory of

Barrie ‘Grampy’ Hebb

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Chapter 1

As a boy, ‘Bird’ had often walked this path with his father. He remembered a day, then as now, when the late summer sun pierced the canopy of the forest, shining shafts of light through the foliage to the ground. It was as if celestial beams were being blasted down from the heavens. There was a thin band of hazy blue essence where the moisture of the forest met the heat of the sun. It hung before him, heavy as an airship.

When he’d first encountered this phenomenon he’d asked his father, ‘Is it light from heaven, Dad?’

Bird’s father, six feet tall, a face cut from granite, and a voice like boots on a gravel path, looked up.

‘No, son.’ He chuckled. ‘It’s a sign that’s all, a sign that something good is going to happen.’

In his youth, this explanation had seemed totally believable. His father had been a formidable individual who oozed confidence. But now, as a young man, he was on edge. After three days alone in the woods, this natural lightshow unsettled him. Bird had read about extraterrestrial encounters and he was certain he didn’t want one of those. He felt jumpy and an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. His stocky body tensed from his toes up, culminating in a tic over his right eye. He let out an involuntary whistle under his breath; it was a familiar trait of his and how he’d got his nickname.

‘Come on now, Birdy.’ The ‘r’ rolled with his Nova Scotian accent. ‘There ain’t nothing here you’se not seen before.’

Bird felt better for hearing a voice, even if it was his own. He took a firmer grip on his hunting rifle and pressed on towards the shafts of light. The mossy forest floor gave beneath his steady tread until he came to a halt. A magical calm framed the moment and he felt more at ease. Bird relaxed his arms and his rifle hung limply at the ends of them, the weight of it stretching the joints of his wrists and elbows.

The sun was bright and he squinted hard to counter it. As he became accustomed to the light, he realised he was no longer alone and the hairs rose on the back of his neck. Two deep, black, unblinking eyes were peering at him. A split-second later, the calm was shattered as Bird let out a sudden cry.

‘Elvis, Elvis, jumping Elvis!’ he boomed. It was as close to a curse as this gentle, free-spirited man ever came.

The young, female, white-tailed deer that had strayed into his path made no sound. She was, however, momentarily preoccupied with a similar heart-stopping sensation. For a split-second, she hesitated, showing a tensing of muscles that seemed to make her contract in size. Then there was a sudden explosion of energy. With startling eyes and root-clipping hooves, she made a break through the brush and away to safety.

Bird, who by now had managed to thoroughly spook himself, was on his way in the other direction.

In his early twenties, Bird was a keen sportsman and his love of the outdoors had made him fit. He’d set off down the woodland path like a sprinter, high-stepping with one hand keeping his hat in place. He was brought up short, confronted by another creature: Scout, his wayward Brittany Spaniel.

‘Darn dog,’ he puffed, ‘where was you when I needed you? Always cuttin’ off on your own, aren’t you? You’d have sniffed her out and saved me heart failure! Darn dog!’

Sensing his owner’s displeasure, Scout padded over, circled Bird neatly, and sat obediently at his right hand.

‘Oh, now you’re Wonder Dog I see!’ said Bird, roughly rubbing the fur on the top of Scout’s head.

Scout wasn’t a hunting dog, more of a hunting trip buddy. Not the sort of dog you wanted around if out with serious hunters, but he was good company for a few days out in the woods. On these trips, they were equal partners. Man and dog, each with his own to-do list, which more often than not lay in different directions. Now, however, the excitement over it was suppertime, which meant that Scout was definitely Bird’s best friend.

Bird was a well-built character with a fondness for checked shirts and red suspenders. He had a round, fleshy, boyish face with the sort of tan that went with being an ‘Outdoorsman’. His thick lips were more often than not set in a smile, bunching up chubby mounds of skin over his cheeks. His chin was dotted with a sprinkling of straw-coloured stubble that matched a thatch of blonde, tousled hair. More often than not, this mop was crammed into one of his numerous baseball caps.

Happy that order had been restored, he called Scout with a quick whistle and set off along the path. He knew the woods well and strode along briskly with Scout a couple of steps behind. The area had been a hunting ground for the native Mi’kmaq Indians. Their habit of marking the area with simple symbols carved into the trees always helped Bird with his orientation. He passed a faded yellow D-shape with four short lines protruding from the flat edge. It was the sign for a bear and also signalled that Bird was on the right track. The path soon started to climb and before long, Bird’s cabin came into view. It was as basic and rustic a dwelling as can be imagined. A simple construction of wooden boards topped with a pitched roof, out of which stuck a crooked, galvanised steel chimney.

It was less a cabin and more of a single room, raised on stilted feet with a small deck at the front. It had served the menfolk of the Doggley family as a bolt-hole for years. It provided a break from children and home-life. His wife referred to it as ‘The Dog House’ and refused to go anywhere near it. There was no running water, no toilet, and no electricity. An old, iron-framed bed, a rickety table and chairs, and a wood-burning stove were really the only concessions to comfort. ‘Back to nature, Bird would say, and after a few days there, he certainly had a more than natural aroma.

However, what the cabin lacked in terms of refinement was made up by its setting. ‘Location, location, location,’ the real estate agents say and if that was the yardstick, then he was on to a good thing. With the cabin’s elevated position, Bird had a panoramic view from his deck of Placid Cove. As idyllic a view as you could wish for. A passage from the Atlantic Ocean leading to sheltered tree-lined waters; picturesque, remote, and with a good stock of mackerel.

As the two approached the cabin, dusk was falling and the last rays of sun reflected off the back lights of Bird’s Ford ‘Woodie’. The wooden panels at the back of the old car had the odd hole in them and the licence plate, reading Nova Scotia 1949, was spotted with rust. The car had been his father’s and he had bought it from his mother after his father had died because he couldn’t bear to see it go to another home. It had seen better days, but it had once been a beauty and it was Bird’s pride and joy.

Beneath the house lay Bird’s other method of transport. In the space created by the stilt-like construction of the cabin, Bird kept his canoe, a navy blue ‘Old Town’ canoe he’d bought two years earlier. It was easy to transport on the Woodie and once at the cabin, he secured it with a length of chain and a lock with the combination of his date of birth: 1939. Its wood and canvas construction made it easy enough for one man to carry, but Bird preferred not to have to portage it too far. However, the cove provided more than enough waterborne adventure and it was only a short walk down to the rocky water’s edge.

The sound of Bird’s boots scraping on the wooden deck was soon followed by the key in the lock and the scrabbling of Scout’s claws on the bottom of the door.

‘Don’t you go spoilin’ my door!’ Bird scolded. Scout was thirsty and in no mood to wait. As soon as the door was open, he burst past his owner and set about drenching the floor as he lapped enthusiastically from his water bowl. Bird busied himself putting his gear away and made various tutting noises as various items wouldn’t quite fit back where they were supposed to.

‘Tomorrow, Scout, you an’ me are going to do a spot of fishing from the rocks at the end of the cove,’ he announced as he unlocked the padlock securing a rough, wooden cabinet. Scout loyally showed some interest and wagged his tail as if to give the project his blessing. Having stowed his hunting rifle, Bird carefully removed a long canvas package from the cupboard. Scout padded up to his master and gave the package a sniff.

‘You come away from ‘Ol’ Faithful’, now!’ Bird warned as he slid out the three sections of an old, worn fishing rod. ‘Whatever new-fangled gadgets they come up with in the future, boy, they’ll not come up with anything better than this.’

He pushed the pieces together and gave the rod an imaginary cast before running an approving eye down its length, his eyes lingering over the gold lettering. ‘J.B. Hobbs & Company, London, by appointment to His Majesty the King,’ it read.

‘See that, Scout, made for a king this was!’ he said proudly. ‘Let’s just hope the fish don’t realise there isn’t a king on the other end of it tomorrow!’ Bird grinned at his own joke as he leant the rod against the wall. The kettle whistled on the stove and he walked over to the bed and reached under the blankets for his hot water bottle to fill.

That evening, with the stove stoked up and his belly full, Bird sat down to complete his journal. Despite his rough and ready appearance, Bird had beautiful handwriting and he took great pride in the meticulous completion of this daily task. Details of where he had been, what he had seen, ammunition he’d discharged, or kit mislaid. He looked at his wristwatch to confirm the date.

‘September second,’ he said out loud. ‘Wait a minute, the second?’ he questioned. ‘I could have sworn...’ He turned back a page and sure enough the previous day had been the second. He unbuckled his wristwatch and put it to his ear.

‘Hmm... still tickin’,’ he mumbled, giving the top of his head a rub. He pulled the small knob out at the side of the watch and tried to wind the hands on to advance the date. It wouldn’t budge. Bird’s tongue poked out of one side of his mouth as he concentrated on the task. The hands wound round the face, but the date remained the same. He gave it a shake and tried again but still nothing.

‘Darn, thing. Served me perfectly well for years, then a little bit of damp and the thing goes and gets a mind of its own. I don’t know.’ He sighed as he realised he was imitating the sort of useless mutterings his father had been prone to.

Alone in the woods with few distractions, Bird was happy to go to bed early. Long days in the outdoors tired him out and he was usually asleep within minutes of his head hitting the pillow. That night, the wind whipped through the woods, rattling the windows of the cabin. It made for a restless night and Bird fidgeted beneath the thin covers. In a small window above his head, a small object was buffeted from side to side by the draft. It was a Dream Catcher, a willow hoop strung with a loose web of sinew strands to filter one’s dreams. It had been hung up by someone in Bird’s family as a mark of respect to the area’s heritage. Bird had thought it a bit sissy when he’d first encountered it. But that night as he tossed about in his sleep, the Dream Catcher did its work, sifting out the bad dreams from the good.

The next morning, Bird and Scout were up early. Outside in the forest, the local residents chirped and screeched their morning calls. The stove was still just alight and Bird managed to fire it up again with some kindling and some of his own puff. Before long, the smell of bacon and eggs filled the air.

‘There you go, boy,’ said Bird, laying down a plate for his companion. Scout gulped up his rations and licked it clean. He continued to chase the plate round the floor with his tongue whilst Bird got together his fishing tackle for their morning’s outing. As he took his coat from a hook on the door, he found a calendar that he had stuck there as a feeble decoration. He ran his finger along the lines of numbers.

‘There you go, Scout, September fou....’ He stopped mid-word. Where there should have been a three followed by a four, there was nothing at all. A simple misprint, he thought, but now he was starting to question what day it was. He had stowed his old woollen rucksack under his bed. He dragged it out and rummaged inside. Having found what he was looking for, he took a rolled up newspaper he’d bought on the day he’d left home, and spread it out on the table. There was a picture of President Kennedy looking serious on the front. He ran his finger along the top to find the date. ‘September first 1962,’ it read. Bird counted on his fingers.

‘First, second, third, fourth!’ he declared triumph- antly. ‘I thought I was losing my mind for a moment there, boy.’With that he opened the door and Scout bounded out into the fresh morning air. Up above them, a cloudless, blue sky peeked through the branches of the trees. It was going to be a glorious, end-of-summer day.

Bird had picked up a hockey injury the previous season and as he made his way down the sloping ground, loaded with fishing kit, he jarred his damaged knee painfully. He whistled on the outward and winced on the inward breath with the effort. Scout was oblivious to