The Price of a Gift – Darrel William McGovern
Paperback ISBN 9781788485784 RRP: £12.99 RRP: $16.95
Hardback ISBN 9781788485791 RRP: £16.99 RRP: $29.95
Kindle ISBN 9781788485807 RRP: £3.50
Harry Street’s character is the catalyst for this book which binds the several principals and their separate actions to make the story flow. Although the work is fiction, Harry Street was a real person from the author’s boyhood. A gentleman, always affable and decidedly English. However, gentleman he may have been, the author could never reconcile why he succumbed to his exile so readily and why his family turned their back on their son. The author has taken a liberty and changed Harry’s easy disposition to express his wrath for Harry’s ready acceptances of his circumstances. Too, the time frame has been altered to reveal an entwined vendetta that takes the reader from the horrors of the First World War, to the pampered lives of the aristocracy and the vastness of Australia. A race to secure aspirations for one man, domination for another and reparation for yet another.
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Chapter 7
London, January 1918 A tall thin man with an intelligent face, dark hair brushed straight back, and in black formal attire complete with tails answered the chimes. Hesitantly, Jack Carter inquired whether he had the correct address. He was assured that he was expected and asked to wait in the parlour. The gentleman in tails excused himself. ‘Lord and Lady Anthony will receive you in the library sir, please follow me,’ he informed Jack in a cultured and deep voice on his return, indicating with a gesture for him to fall in behind. The American gazed in awe at his surroundings, noting the marble staircase spiralling upwards towards another vastness of excellence in baroque architecture. He followed the long-coated figure who patiently stopped every so often, conscious he could no longer hear Jack's squeaky footsteps, and to allow him to admire his surroundings. Jack paid laudatory glances at the several paintings that adorned the coachwood panelling which made up the interior walls of the lower floor. He quickly gawked at Picasso abstracts, a Bruegal’s Village Marketplace Scene, the Vandyke portrait of Charles the First, a tapestry by Sheldon depicting the Harvest, and a Madonna in stone sculptured by Henry Moore. He bestowed admiring glances at the many and varied pieces of period furniture that graced his lavish surroundings. Following the gentlemen's gentleman, his new shoes squeaked and echoed hollowly on the mosaic flooring, the only sound to be heard apart from the ticking of the large Grandfather Clock, which was encased in a polished cabinet of Beechwood. Benson stopped before the library doors, he could feel the tall man's breath on the nape of his neck as he knocked against the heavy, ornately panelled timbers and waited for permission to enter. ‘Mister Carter Sir, your Ladyship,’ he announced, at the same time moving aside and encouraging a hesitant Jack to enter the room. They stood together, near the large open fireplace, whether for strength in the nearness of one another's presence, or, to display a united front for Carter's benefit. One glance was all he needed to see who Katrina resembled. It was like looking at a picture of her thirty years from now, or so he imagined. If anything, he thought Katrina would be slightly taller, favouring her father in that respect. ‘That will be all for the moment Benson,’ said the same husky voice. ‘Very good my Lady,’ Benson replied, bowing and closing the door behind his retreating person. They stood facing Jack for what seemed an age before Lord Anthony broke the silence. ‘I am Katrina's father, Lord Anthony of Bedfordshire and this is her mother, Lady Anthony,’ he began, walking forward distastefully to shake Jack's hand. Jack nodded, the man had introduced his title, his position, he was immediately wary. ‘Won't you be seated young man?’ Lady Anthony invited, indicating the ornate hand carved Sheraton lounge piece.
It seemed to the American she was being courteous rather than kind. He felt uncomfortable. For the first time in his life he wanted to turn and run. When the carriage had stopped in front of the large Mid-Georgian House with the sash windows, leadlight stained glass, and the elegant doorway, he queried the coachman, feeling he had made a mistake.
‘No mistake Guv,’ was the rejoinder. ‘They're loaded that lot, tis only the Town 'Ouse, got mansions and castles all over the bleedin' country. Four pence sir,’ he added, holding a gnarled hand to collect the money. ‘Thank you Guv.’
A retired high school teacher, Darrel McGovern lives with his wife, Helen, in a modest home in the Newcastle suburb of Fletcher. Their family have left the roost, and they are proud grandparents. Until retirement, Darrel hadn’t found the time to pursue his passion for Australian history, research or writing. As well as writing, Darrel is a keen fisherman, lawn bowler and golfer. He loves being surrounded by family and friends, and along with Helen visits Adelaide and Darwin to see his grandchildren as often as possible.
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