The Forgotten Story

The Forgotten Story

Winston Graham

Language: English

Pages: 170

ISBN: 1447256697

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


First published in 1964 by Bodley Head

In December, 1898, a barquentine was wrecked on the Cornish coast near Falmouth. This is "the forgotten story" of some of the people who came unexpectedly to be passengers in the ship on her last voyage, of their loves and hates, and how a young boy is drawn irrevocably into the centre of a gripping drama.

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to talk to a boy he had come to know. They talked about wholesome interesting things, about a catapult, a dog which hunted rabbits, a farmer and an apple tree. At length he could stay no longer; people would be arriving in another few minutes; he must go back to the hushed voices and the drawn curtains and the smell of moss and chrysanthemums. Aunt Madge was sitting in her favourite chair. She glanced up at the clock as he slipped in. ‘Been playing,’ she said. ‘Not nice to be out and about

and presently she gave up and sat on the bed. She supposed that the fate of all rebels was loneliness. In a sense she had felt herself to be a rebel all her life, she had felt always a reluctance to bow heedlessly to the things other people bowed to. Without conceit, she had known there was a difference between herself and most of the people she had met. She moved quicker and thought quicker. Often in conversation she had found herself running on ahead like a child before its grandparents,

had gone to bed with little more said, but he had turned and tossed for endless hours in the darkness, sleepless and alone. He knew himself lost and without guidance. Instinctively he felt himself to be in a position which would have puzzled many a grown-up. He was helpless before the drift of events. Could he have become a fatalist to order he might have saved at least some of the anxiety of the night; but no fatalism and no resignation could prevent the fevered living-over-again of what had

which the wide lace cuffs were stained with bacon grease. On her head was a pink lace cap. She looked at him from above her chins and evidently recognised him. ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘ You slept? Fanny’s late. You could get … sticks for the fire.’ Under directions Anthony went out upon the stone-paved quay, which was directly accessible from the kitchen door, and found a pile of driftwood and an axe. He began to chop up the wood. This was a job to which he could bring some skill, for he had always

overthrown, the money rightly hers had been given to someone else. She had gone out to earn her living among strangers. But now something was upon her less bearable than any of the foregoing. Something crooked and unclean and not to be thought of. But something which would have to be thought of. In the next few days and weeks it would take a larger and larger place in her life until there would be room for nothing else. Then, perhaps it would be in three months, perhaps six, the bubble of talk

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