The Indescribable Library of Oddments

By Robert Cooke

"It was a strange day in late Summer that I first met the man who had forgotten his own name."

In an old caravan at a traditional English country fair a mysterious storyteller shares tales of ghosts, monsters and forgotten places over the course of an afternoon. Throughout the day though our narrator cannot help but wonder: who is this man; where did he come from; and where did he get such a strange collection of objects? One thing's for sure, our narrator's unlikely to be catching his bus anytime soon.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Cooke
• Release date: Dec 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370598205

Robert Cooke

I’m a Writer, Theatre Practitioner and avid traveller from Suffolk, England. Having trained at Middlesex University in Theatre Arts I have worked and performed in a number of capacities from Lighting Designer to Stand-Up Comic. My debut play ‘The Box’ was Highly Commended in the Liverpool Hope Playwriting Prize 2014. My first novel, ‘Darkest Peru’, came into being as a result of a 6 week backpacking journey around Peru that resulted from a growing frustration of working and paying rent in London. I’ve recently released a novella entitled ‘The Indescribable Library Of Oddments’ based on an ongoing storytelling project. I’m currently starting work on the follow up to these two books tentatively titled ‘The Vault Of Horrors’.

Book preview

The Indescribable Library Of Oddments

Copyright @2017 by Robert Cooke

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

First Printing, 2017

Smashwords Edition

Cover design by kitfosterdesign.com

https://robertcookeauthor.wordpress.com/

To a Pip who always enjoys my stories (even when they’re not very good).

Contents

The Storyteller

The Picture Of Anne Reilly

The Grand Estate

The Butler’s Story

The Chandeleur

The Snickle Fairy

The Tower That Always Chimes

About The Author

1

The Storyteller

IT WAS A STRANGE DAY in late Summer that I first met the man who had forgotten his own name. I was at a small country fair in my home town of Southwold, the kind that happens every year, yet changes very little; almost an echo from the past. I say it was a strange day, but to be more precise it was a strange series of circumstances that led to me meeting this peculiar stranger.

I had planned to take a bus to the nearest city, Norwich, that day. Considering the bus takes an hour and a half it wasn’t particularly near for me, in UK terms at least, but it was nonetheless the best choice I had in the area; which tells you a little about the paucity of large towns in East Anglia. As is usual with me, however, I missed the bus. This meant I had a good hour or more to wander around before the next one would arrive. I had for point of reference arrived 5 minutes early, so either the bus was very early indeed or it had simply not turned up at all, a situation I found all to common trying to use public transport in the backwaters of Suffolk. There are some things I do miss about living in London, there transport simply isn’t an issue.

An hour is too long to sit around at a bus stop in any case so I decided I’d have a walk on the common for a bit as it was a nice enough day. It was typical English summer weather really; warm enough that I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, but with gusts of wind frequent enough for me to be carrying a hoodie over one shoulder to put on and off at need. It was only as I approached the far stretching common that I spotted the annual town fair, copious amounts of bunting and flags indicating its presence near to the sport fields.

I walked towards the various stalls thinking that it wouldn’t harm to have a look around. It had been a number of years since I’d been in the town for the fair and I have fond memories of it from my childhood. As I’ve said it’s one of those fairs that is stuck in the past, all the old favourites were there: Apple bobbing, pick the peg, throw the hoop, guess the sweets in the jar, that bean bag board thing. All the classics. It was a true stroll down memory lane as I wove myself between the menagerie of stalls; with crafts and different foods interspersed between the various games.

I’d been exploring the fair for perhaps half an hour when my eye fell upon something that seemed at once entirely out of place, yet perfectly fitting the environment too. Tucked away in a barely visible corner of the field was a small and battered caravan, the type which you might have seen at an old circus. Once upon a time it would have been horse drawn, with its large spoked wheels and ornately designed exterior. Its current state was none the less drab and in need of a fresh batch of paint. On its side hung a single faded sign with curved letters displaying a single sentence: ‘Stories gratefully told and received’.

I couldn’t help but be interested. The caravan, somewhat removed from the rest of the fair and attracting very little attention had seemingly taken the retro feel of the afternoon to another level. For some reason though I seemed to be the only one to think it at all noteworthy, with many fair-goers simply passing it by without a second glance. Taking a quick look at my cheap, battered, old Casio watch I decided I had long enough to have a brief peek and see what the deal was.

As I approached the run-down caravan I couldn’t help but wonder how it had been brought to the fair. It was a horse drawn carriage, but there were no horses in the field. To be honest the wheels looked so battered that were the thing to be towed on a road I would be afraid they would fall off. Regardless of this fact I just couldn’t see the thing being pulled by a modern car. The image just made me sad, it would be a snap shot of how the world has changed. With these changes the modern world seems more regimented, some of the excitement and mystery has just gone. The wonder people used to have going to a circus a hundred years ago or more has long since gone, as have the circuses themselves really.

I walked slowly up the wooden steps leading into the caravan, placing a hand on the aged paint as I went. It was a piece of history, one that didn’t seem to attract the interest of the crowd like it had grabbed mine. I rapped once on the door, unsure if I should just walk in.

It’s open, a kindly old voice sounded from within.

And so I pushed open the door and stepped inside, leaving the cheerful sounds of the fair behind me.

***

The first thing I noticed as my eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside the caravan was the lack of available space anywhere. Shelves were filled with numerous objects from books to ornaments, keepsakes and curios. Similarly most of the other available surfaces were likewise filled. At the far end of the caravan, partly obscured by a faded set of curtains was a small bed where I assumed the owner slept. The owner himself was an elderly man with wild grey hair, he wore a tattered jacket over a smart shirt and was sat in one of two hard backed chairs placed around a small table to one side of the cramped room. The bearing of the man gave him a timeless aspect making it hard for me to pinpoint his age, he could have been anywhere between 60 and 160 and I wouldn’t have been surprised. It was his eyes though that most captivated me, of any I’d seen in my life his really sparkled with life.

Welcome, welcome! the man said. And what can I do for you today?

I hesitated not quite sure myself, Well, I saw your caravan and the sign on the side, and I was just curious I suppose, this really is a beautiful caravan. I can’t remember having seen you at the fair before, are you from the area? I inquired politely.

I shouldn’t say so no, the man replied bluntly with a smile.

Oh okay, I responded slightly taken aback, "have you travelled far to be here? You are here for the fair right? I just saw the sign and assumed, you being near the stalls and all, I haven’t just imposed upon your home have