The Barbary Mill

By G.J. Saunders

It was all so simple, graduate, make a career in music, fall in love... It was the year of The Beatles' Revolver album. Victoria found Henry and his bookshop, then James and his adorable motherless son. As Victoria found wisdom in the strange book that Henry had gifted her, tragedy waited. Rebecca came... then the rains. Maybe love can survive anything.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.J. Saunders
• Release date: Feb 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393246435

Book preview

The Barbary Mill

G.J.Saunders

Chapter 1

It was 1966 and the first half of the new decade already lay in the past. The rain had started in the late afternoon, it began as nothing more than a gathering of damp mist up on the hills that overlooked Thistleford. Now it was falling with wilful determination across the streets of the small town. Rain has a way of bringing out the truth of everything; it throws a focus over previously invisible things, and shows them in a new perspective. The northern slopes of Thistleford were bounded by the river Arwent which meandered its way down from the granite hills, gathering speed as it narrowed into a deep gorge and kissed the edge of the town. There was a stone bridge that arched across the river, built when the world was horse-drawn; it now struggled to cope with the modern flow of traffic. A new modern bridge had been rumoured for the past decade, but so far, there was no evidence of its appearance.

The evening was already dark and as Victoria Holister made her way across the glistening cobbled street, she could hear the river's babble but, hidden by the buildings, could see nothing of the dark water as it flowed, rain swollen, in swirling eddies along the edge of the town. The street lights, haloing yellow through the rain, cast a sheen across the wet pavement as Victoria picked her way avoiding the deepening puddles that lay like an obstacle course on the time-worn flagstones; her feet splashed making little slaps and squelches. It was late November and the night felt distinctly wintery as the young woman continued her way rather wearily towards Stanmore Street and the sanctuary of her modest home. She had hoped to get away from the office on time; there was a radio concert that she had hoped to catch but had been summoned by Mr Grant to take down several letters. She used her self-concocted shorthand and then, as requested, typed and posted the letters on her way home. At six thirty on a Saturday evening with the letters, now stamped and safe in the post box, Victoria could hear music drifting across the air from the 'Unicorn Club' as she paced towards her home. She might have enjoyed a night out dancing herself, she thought, if there had been someone to take her.

Her shoes were rather inadequate for the conditions and already she could feel the water seeping through the thin leather to further assault her chilled toes. She pulled her gaberdine raincoat tighter around her shoulders and hunched herself against the rain that now fell in heavy drops without mercy. As she paced along the street she was humming the melody of 'Elanor Rigby', the rhythm synchronising with the beat of her paces. There were still a good fifteen minutes of energetic walking that lay ahead of her before she would reach the modest comfort of her little two roomed flat and the Beatles' song seemed to help to energise her. Victoria normally found the walk home enjoyable; it was a few minutes to unwind from the stresses of her day, now it seemed a daunting prospect as the gusting wind snatched at her coat.

Victoria had managed to find work at the Grant & Grant Import and Export Brokerage firm. The job had been a lifesaver at the time but she was now starting to become very aware of its shortcomings. Victoria had long assumed that the name Grant & Grant was an affectation, a name intended to give the modest business a little gravitas. No one man band this but Grant & Grant. Certainly there was only one Mr Grant who had ever made his presence known and as far as Victoria could determine that had always been the case. She liked to imagine the missing other Grant to be hiding in one of the many cupboards but so far she had not been able to discover him.

The real Mr Grant was not a man with whom a young woman such as Victoria could readily interrogate on such matters. During her half hour lunch break Victoria had slipped out to Dewhurst's Grocery shop where she had bought two ounces of potted meat and four eggs which lay in a paper bag in her small wicker basket. The basket now held in the hook of her arm was open to the elements. She looked down at the paper bag which was becoming waterlogged, transparently soggy.

On the edge of turning 22 Victoria welcomed the promised excitement of the times, even though little of the new optimism of the swinging sixties had yet bothered to trouble her modest life. As she walked home on that wet night, her mind rested uncomfortably on her day's work. There had been nothing particularly unusual about the day; just the usual over work and callous disregard for her supposed working hours. Mr Grant was not considered to be a good employer, her work mate Katy had warned her of the fact when she first started. If he had been less unpleasant then the burdensome work load might have seemed more tolerable, but a kind word, a smile of thanks, or a gesture of thoughtfulness appeared to be foreign concepts to the man.

Colin Grant was heavy set, though rather short. A roll of fat round his neck constantly threatened to swallow his stiff collar and he was forever running a finger round it apparently in search of relief from some interminable itching. His hair was thinning which he unsuccessfully tried to disguise with an optimistic comb-over. These were trivialities which Victoria could easily have overlooked in a man who might have shown some appreciation of his two employees or indeed his wife and daughter for whom he never seemed to have a kind word.

Victoria was employed as a typist, a lowly position from which she had long ago given up hope of finding any real threads of satisfaction. Only Katy who shared her suffering offered her a glimmer of companionship as they winked a conspiratorial and slightly amused disdain of Mr Grant.

Katy was married and was expecting her first child, the prospect of her imminent confinement was not welcomed by Mr Grant who seemed to take it as a personal affront instead of a joyous occasion. Katy made it very clear that she would not be returning to the brokerage after her confinement and Colin Grant had indicated that Victoria would be expected to take up Katy's duties as well as her own. He had suggested that her 'promotion' would include a modest pay rise as if this were an act of benevolence on his part.

Despite her hardship, a sense of pride would never allow Victoria to concede that she lived in actual poverty. The facts however suggested otherwise; her meagre income was sufficient to pay the weekly rental on her small flat and leave just enough to feed and clothe herself. As for the small flat, there was little to be said for the place; it had a roof over it and a door which closed securely against the world. Victoria had done her best with her limited resources to make the place into a home. The trouble was, her meagre wages, despite usually working sixty hours a week, did not stretch far. Her rooms were four flights up in one of those gone-to-seed Edwardian red brick houses, all dingy peeling wallpaper inside and crumbling brickwork outside. There was a sitting room, with the sofa converting, with only a modest struggle, into the semblance of a bed. The other room was flattered by the description of 'kitchenette'. There was a tiny sink and a small electric cooker, a small Formica topped table and a set of loose hinged cupboards that clung precariously to the wall. The bathroom was shared with the other tenants of the house and finding a time to take advantage of the facilities was often the case of intense and fraught negotiation.

As Victoria walked home she was acutely aware that, after her extravagant purchase of four eggs, her purse contained nothing more than a few coppers until her next pay day which still lay rather too far away for comfort. The eggs were the final ingredient for her birthday cake. She would get a card from her parents but, unless she made the effort herself, the day would pass otherwise unmarked. She was not ready for that just yet. A birthday cake, even if there was no one to share it with, was a little indulgence which still seemed entirely necessary.

As she pulled the collar of her coat up and leaned into the slope of the wind, she could see the lights of The Barbary Mill just ahead as it emerged though the rain. It stood between two residential buildings on the lower slopes of Stanmore Street with an impressive double fronted facade featuring wide windows on either side of a covered entrance. There was a feeling of comfort emanating from the orange glow that spread from the windows and lay across the streaming pavement. She had passed the bookshop every day, twice every day in fact, for the past year and a half but had never ventured inside. It was already after six but the shop appeared to be still open, in fact Victoria could never quite remember finding a time when the shop had seemed closed. On a whim and despite having no money for books, she stopped in the shelter of the doorway and peered in.

A black cat had already taken up temporary residence in the same spot and was licking his fur dry. Little droplets of rain had settled on his whiskers as he looked up at Victoria. His green eyes viewed her initially with distrust and then, deciding that the young woman offered no threat, he continued his task with a flash of his pink tongue. Victoria was a cat person, she would have loved to own one of her own but her flat, up on the top floor, was unsuitable for pets. Bending down she held out her fingers to the animal who was soft and affectionate but with the air of some hidden mystery that flashed from behind his eyes. He allowed her to stroke his cheek and then tickle the softly tender place behind his ears.

As Victoria peered through the glass door, she caught sight of a somewhat elderly man, serenely portly with smiling eyes who was seated in a comfortable looking chair plumped with cushions. He was flicking through the pages of the evening paper and on catching a glimpse of the young woman, he lifted his reading glasses to rest on his head and with a welcoming smile beckoned to her to share the warmth of his shop.

Without really considering the consequences, Victoria pushed at the door and stumbled in.

Come in out of the rain for a while my dear  — the man said as Victoria stood dripping a pool of water onto the polished wooden floor. Let me take your coat  — I'm Henry.

Victoria was instantly disarmed by the kindness of the gentleman and absorbed by the cosy atmosphere of the shop. Without question she allowed her coat to be lifted from her shoulders and watched as Henry shook the beading droplets from it then draped it across a bentwood chair which he carefully placed in front of a substantially adequate radiator.

Oh well, that's very kind, thank you so much — I'm Victoria, Victoria Holister.

Hello Victoria, I am very pleased to meet you. Now feel free to browse, there's no need whatever to buy anything — this is no night to be out; I'm sure the worst of the rain will be over soon.

He ran his fingertips along the spines of the books that lined one of the many shelves. His fingers seemed to recognise the books with the intuitive familiarity that a pianist might have of his keyboard.

It's so kind of you to invite me in from the rain.

I can spot a book person at a hundred paces. He said I find them to be generally nice people, as quiet and as amiable as the books themselves. I have often noticed you as you hurry past my shop. I hoped one day you might call in.

You are very kind — Mr — Barbary?

Ah no, Glover, Henry Glover. I'll be disappointed if you don't just call me Henry though.

Then thank you Henry. Victoria said rather shyly as was her manner. So who gives his name to the shop?

Well a certain Mr Barbary was the original owner of the property; this was when it was indeed a grain mill producing the finest flour in the county. Of course this was a long time ago, way back in the late 1700s before even I was born. Victoria smiled at the self effacing allusion to Henry's age. She would have been unable to put a reliable number to Henry's age but whatever it was he seemed somehow perfectly suited to it.

There used to be a hefty oak beamed water wheel, he continued, driven by the Arwent until it was lost in a once in a generation flood some hundred years ago. When I bought the premises, back in the thirties, I researched the history of the Mill and became quite intrigued. Henry inched himself towards the back room that was separated from the shop by the soft burgundy drape of a heavy velvet curtain.

I'm just about to have a cup of tea, I hope you won't be offended if I ask you to join me — I've got Jaffa cakes. He added with a discernible twinkle in his blue eyes.

Well I'd love a cup of tea, thank you so much. Victoria had a soft spot for the soft orangey chocolate biscuits but they were an extravagance she could rarely afford. From the back room amid the sound of rattling tea cups and boiling kettles Henry continued his explanation with a slightly raised voice.

You will know this of course — Although it's not visible from the street, the river still runs alongside the building, in fact after heavy rain it's not unusual for the cellar to flood. It's not a problem as long as I remember not to keep perishables down there. So anyway, when I was musing for a name for my little second-hand book shop — Well, the answer was obvious.

You've been here since the thirties?

Yes, over thirty years now. There's a nice little set of rooms up on the second floor where I've made myself comfortable. To be honest I spend most of my time down here in the shop.

I've noticed the shop always seems open.

Henry peered through the slit in the curtains.

Well why should I close the doors when I could be delighted by a passing young woman who might choose to pop on whim?

Victoria smiled, she felt a slight reddening of her cheeks but also the comforting embrace of the shop's snugness. She could smell the pleasant aroma of old pre-loved books that hung in the room mingling with the scent of some unseen flowers which brought a balancing sweet freshness. Through the window she could see that the rain was coming harder now, its pattering was growing louder and the sound somehow made her feel safe and warm in Henry's shop.

The shop was certainly and primarily a second hand book shop but there were also a few carefully selected antiques and paintings on display. Victoria's eye was drawn to a rocking horse that was stabled in the far corner under a small collection of pastoral oil paintings. The animal's white dappled paint had seen better times but the contented creature's smile seemed suffused with satisfaction from all the children he had been able to delight over the years.

With a rattling of cups Henry returned from the back room carrying a silver tray with teapot and a plate of the promised Jaffa cakes.

We'll take our tea in here. It seems cosier than the back room and I'll be on hand should a customer venture in. Victoria lifted her eyes from the rocking horse to Henry and smiled. Ah I see you've spotted Merryweather; if you look closely you'll see a 'Not for sale sign' on his saddle. Maybe one day a deserving customer will enquire and I may let him go to a new home. Now come and sit and have some tea.

This is all very kind of you Henry.

Not at all, in fact you are doing me a kindness with your pleasant company — Milk and sugar is it?

Just a splash of milk for me.

Now do help yourself to the Jaffas; don't hold back.

Although she had only met the man a few moments ago, it seemed to Victoria that Henry had already taken on the comforting shape of an old friend. She was normally slow to make friends but for some reason Henry seemed to have become an instant exception to the rule.

***

A little earlier James Newton had been walking with his young son Toby down the High street. He had just picked up the child from his sister who had been summoned to look after the boy until James came home from work. Normally he would collect Toby in his Rover 2000 but the car was in the garage awaiting the fitment of a replacement clutch. So the father and son walked hand in hand, James pausing every so often to swing Toby round in dizzying circles. The Thistleford Council had made the town proud this year with their Christmas decorations. Strings of coloured lights were already hung along the High Street and in the town square a 12 foot tree, festooned with sparkling glass baubles and spot-lit with coloured lights from its base, enthusiastically proclaimed the approaching festive season. Toby was mesmerised by the display that shone magically in the darkness; this would be the first year that he was really old enough to fully appreciate Christmas and his eyes were wide with excitement. James Newton's house was within a brisk walking distance of The Barbary Mill and the father and son were making their way down the gentle incline towards home. When the rain started Toby pulled himself free of his father and ran for the shelter of the long disused railway tunnel. Despite the dark and litter-strewn state of the old brick tunnel Toby's father thought it a, not unreasonable place, to shelter for a few moments until the rain eased. He carried on at a walking pace following his son.

Don't go too deep into the tunnel Toby. He called. Toby heard his father's voice but was not listening to the words, he had his adventurer's hat on. Although the tunnel was dark and maybe a little scary, Toby was four now and a dark tunnel held no fears for him, not really, not while his father was within calling distance. He looked back to his father, for just a little reassurance, and saw him, solid and reliable, silhouetted against the glow of the distant street lights. The excitement of Christmas had already grabbed Toby and he skipped on into the darkness laughing, his voice echoing against the damply musty brickwork.

Toby, where are you? — Come on now, don't be silly.

There was no reply, the only sound above the rain was the faint drift of music rolling across the air from the Unicorn Club. James walked a little deeper into the darkness, any flutter of anger he might have felt was now tempered by a growing feeling of concern for his son's disappearance.

Toby, come here at once. He called.

James' own voice bounced back to him but there was nothing from his young son. Grabbed by a sudden sense of alarm he started to walk down the tunnel more quickly. He found it difficult to see much in the gloom and almost tripped over an old mattress that some paragon of civic pride had dumped in the tunnel. Gaining his balance he called again:

Toby come here this instant. There was still no reply so he started to run, slowly at first and then as Toby remained undiscovered, more quickly. In the distance he could now see the end of the tunnel. The night sky hung a shade paler than the claustrophobic blackness that engulfed him and he ran towards it.

Suddenly a group of bats, disturbed from their roost, flew noisily towards James. He stopped running and covered his head as they turned and swooped before heading out flapping into the night. James shivered involuntarily at the encounter and then felt a little ashamed of his reaction to the harmless wildlife. He was almost at the end of the tunnel now and had seen no trace of his son. As he broke from the echoing stillness of the arching brickwork, he felt the rain on his face. More disturbing, he could hear the rushing water of the Arwent and as he imagined the worst his heart froze.

Toby, Toby — He called but there was no reply. He ran towards the edge of the river, there was an old path that ran alongside the water. It was overgrown with weeds and James ran on stumbling and calling into the night.

***

Now, Victoria won't you finish off the Jaffa cakes, there's only one left and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.

You could save it for later. Victoria said.

I could, but where would be the pleasure in that when I could offer it to you?

Victoria smiled and helped herself to the last biscuit.

So, Victoria, do you have an interest in reading? — Are there any genres that might catch your fancy?

Well I have a fondness for The Romantic Poets and I have been known to enjoy a good tearful love story from time to time but I suppose my real interest is in music.

Music, how interesting. There is a modest music section across there. He pointed to a shelf that ran along the wall adjacent to the counter. Is there anything in particular?

I was studying music — for a while.

Henry looked at Victoria, he caught her eyes with a rather intense look so that Victoria felt the need to study the nails on her fingers for a moment.

You were unable to continue your studies? Henry said.

Well yes, circumstances rather got in the way of my ambitions.

Henry smiled, he could see that he had touched a sore spot and had no wish to upset his guest.

You can tell me about it, the next time you visit. He said. If you would like to, of course.

The next time?

Well you will come and visit me again, won't you?

I'd like that. Victoria said and as she spoke the shop door burst open and an out of breath man, wet from the rain, staggered in.

I'm sorry to bother you, he said, the distress evident on his drawn face, but you haven't seen a little boy out and about alone on the street? He's wearing a pale grey duffle coat — bright red Wellingtons?

Chapter 2

Henry stood, he had a look of concern on his face as he approached the clearly distressed man.

This is your young son? I believe I've seen you and the little chap passing the shop from time to time.

Yes my Toby he's only four — I've looked everywhere for him, he ran down the edge of the river, that's my fear that he's been swallowed by the water.

"All right, best not to get ahead of yourself, I'm sure the lad's just wandered off somewhere. Why don't you tell Victoria where you last saw him while I make a quick call to Sergeant Briggs at the police station.

You think that's necessary?

Almost certainly not but it's exactly what the police are for, keeping us all safe.

Yes, tell me about Toby, I'm Victoria.

I'm James, James Newton.

Victoria in a rare but justified act of intimacy, touched the distraught father's arm with her outstretched fingers.

Look James, just let me get my coat and I'll come out with you. I'm sure the two of us will find your little boy soon enough. Does he make a habit of running off?

No not really but he's of an age where the world's all a strange new wonder for him and I don't believe he's quite grasped how dangerous it can be.

I think you'll find children have an intuitive sense that tends to keep them safe. So where did you last see Toby?

James explained what had happened while they heard Henry's muffled voice from the back room as he gave the relevant details to the police.

The call satisfactorily completed, Henry returned to the shop:

Now, James is it? — Did I hear your name correctly?

Yes, James. He offered his hand to Henry who shook it firmly.

So James the police are going to send someone straight away, they have asked that you wait here so that they can talk to you.

Will they be long? James said, his eyes turned back to the rain soaked streets.

"No, I'm sure they'll be here in a few moments.

Why don't I go alone and keep looking while you wait here with Henry? Victoria said. You say he's wearing a light grey duffle coat and red boots.

Yes.

And you lost sight of him by the old railway tunnel.

Yes he definitely went through the tunnel, I turned right at the exit and followed the path down by the river then past the houses 'till I came to the book shop.

In that case I'll go the other way after I get through the tunnel.

You are so kind — I'm sorry I've forgotten your name.

Victoria. She said with a soft smile. Don't worry James, I have a good feeling about this.

Victoria pulled on her coat and with nothing more than a quick wave of her hand, vanished into the night. The rain was still falling but it had eased and looked as if it might soon stop. Victoria made her way up towards the High Street, her eyes peeled as she peered into the darkness for any sign of a misplaced child. She passed through the old railway tunnel, every so often stopping to call the boy's name. Even for an adult the dank tunnel was a rather foreboding place at night and it was with a feeling of relief that she burst out again into the freshness of the rain washed air. She looked over the weedy path that ran along by the river. Her eyes scanned the disused steel bridge where the rail lines used to run. None of this was fenced off and an incautious child could easily have slipped into the water that rushed and swirled like a great black snake. Walking carefully she edged her way closer to the water. It was dark and menacing, its waters barely seen in the shadowy night; all too easily it could have provoked the sinister edge of her imagination. She could imagine the swirl of dark unknown creatures that lay beneath the churning water as the river drew on towards the distant estuary. There was a slight shudder across her shoulders as she watched the fast moving current and knew that if Toby had been caught in its dark embrace, he would have been carried a mile or more downstream by now. Although she did not know the child, a sudden realisation of the situation hit her like a stab to her heart. If Toby had slipped into the water as his father feared, then he would already be beyond her help.

Instead of dwelling on that ominous thought she searched her mind for a more optimistic proposition. Putting herself into the mindset of a four year old, she tried to imagine what would have attracted her own inquisitive nature at that age. The answer was obvious; it was the new Christmas lights and especially the wonderfully lit tree in the town square. Turning left as she had always proposed, she made her way past the rusty steel carcass of the railway bridge and up the river-side path until it joined Farthing Lane. Farthing Lane was a short side street that was lined with semi detached homes built in the optimism following the war. Most windows were, at this hour, curtained with little chinks of light escaping into the night. Looking up the street she could see, at the crest of the rise, the junction that led towards the shopping district. What gave Victoria heart was a glimpse of the Christmas lights casting hypnotic colours onto the sheen of the road. The sight was an inescapable attraction for a four year old out on