Mr Sparks by Danny Weston

Author:Danny Weston
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781448188086
Publisher: Andersen Press Ltd

15

Home Run

Owen ran frantically along the dirt track, his eyes straining to spot some sign of habitation. As he ran, the golden leaves of autumn fell all around him, as though the entire world was dying. On either side of the narrow track the trees towered above him. They seemed to be crowding in, their jagged, half-naked branches clawing at the sky. When he’d first started running, there’d been the occasional low groan of pain from the suitcase, but now everything was ominously silent. He was just beginning to think that it really was too late, when the track took a long slow curve to the left and, up ahead of him, seemingly looming out of the forest itself, was the cottage. It was exactly as it had looked in his dream – low, white-painted walls, a thatched roof and a stubby chimney, from which a column of grey smoke rose. It was like something out of a fairy tale and Owen knew in an instant that this had to be the place.

He didn’t slow down. He was almost out of breath now, his heart thudding like a drum in his chest, but he crossed the space like a champion sprinter and lurched to a halt, gasping for breath, in front of the plain wooden door. Above it, a small elegantly carved sign announced a name. G. Lacombe. The surname struck a chord with Owen. The story that Mr Sparks had told him on the trawler, hadn’t there been a Lacombe in that? Wasn’t it the name of Mr Sparks’ original owner? But there was no time to think about that now. A bell pull hung in front of the door, attached to a length of chain and Owen yanked it repeatedly, the sound clamouring in the silence, but nobody came to answer the call. Growing impatient, he tried the handle of the door. It turned easily and swung open on well-oiled hinges. Owen stepped inside and stood looking uncertainly around.

It was clear he had come to the right place. He was standing in what looked like a toyshop, with a simple wooden counter directly in front of him. On the counter and ranged on shelves all around the room, were wooden toys of every description. Puppets, dolls, automobiles, trains, biplanes, Jack-in-the-boxes, tops, hoops, castles, dolls’ houses and much, much more, all of them beautifully crafted and painted in a profusion of bright shiny colours that thrilled the soul and dazzled the eye. They were a bit young for Owen, though in different circumstances he would have happily browsed here for hours, admiring the craftsmanship, but he was desperate and knew he had already wasted too much time. ‘Hello?’ he shouted. ‘Is there anybody here?’ His voice seemed to echo in the enclosed space.

He listened intently. At first he heard nothing but the slow, steady ticking of an unseen clock. Then he thought he heard the sounds of movement somewhere beyond this room, the slow, measured creaking of footsteps on floorboards.

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