Black as Charcoal

Jake looked at its watch. 10:52, “Bloody Hell!” he had missed his bus by 3 minutes. The N68 was only going by on the half hour, he would need to take the 189 to Marble Arch station and then transfer onto route 36 “22 minutes to KCH”. He would be at best 15 minutes late for its appointment. That is, if the next bus was on time.

Anxiously staring down Manchester street through the fog, he spotted the headlights of the bus, "Thank goodness" the 189 was on schedule. He boarded the overcrowded bus via the back door. Everyone was packed like sardines, with only standing room available. He could smell the garlic off the breath of the older gentleman sitting in the row above him. It made him nauseous. When they arrived at their final stop everyone exited unceremoniously. As the overly polite person that he was, Jake was one of the last ones to exit when he noticed a little black book left behind in the older gentleman’s seat. He quickly grabbed the book and rush onto the platform to try to return it to it’s owner. Through the large crowd, Jake could not find him “He can’t have gone that far.” The men looked to be at least 80 years old and could not have been walking that fast he thought. Jake looked at its watch 11:07. His bus was leaving in less than 2 minutes. He shoved the book into his satchel and ran to the platform.

He arrived 18 minutes late at the hospital. He registered himself and proceeded to the Oncology department immediately. This was his last treatment in this round of chemotherapy and he was longing for a break. The receptionist was a middle-aged woman with a pair of large square Warby Parker glasses and a jaded look on her face. “Sorry Mr. Darby, but your appointment was at 11:30. You will have to wait for the next round at 1 o’clock”. Jake impatiently sat down in the waiting room, after a few minutes browsing through the magazines and medical pamphlets, it dawned on him that he had found this little black book and that perhaps he could use this time to locate its owners contact information. He reached into his bag and pull out the leatherbound book.

Inside there were no name, address or telephone number. Only a few charcoal sketches and on the last page of the book was the monogram D.C. Suddenly he recognized one of the drawing. He had seen this drawing last fall on his visit to the British museum. A quick browse through the online museum database and he rapidly located the piece. CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL by the famous artist Daniel Crofford. This was it, the book must have belonged to him.

After his treatment Jake returned to his flat and frantically searched online for a phone number or address, but with no avail. He spent the next four days sick in his flat. This always happened after one of his treatment. The following Wednesday, he felt better and decided to proceed to the museum in a last-ditch effort. As he was checking in at the ticket booth, he noticed a copy the Daily Telegraph sitting on the counter next to him, it was open to a page that read “Daniel Crofford artist known for his Cathedral drawings.” The article amongst other things described how Daniel had passed away the day before. Jake pondered for a moment what to do with the book. He decided the best plan was to request contact information for the estate.

A few weeks later, as his immune system rebounded, he was invited to Brighton to visit the family’s home. Looking at the book Mrs. Crofford discovered a drawing of St-Paul’s Cathedral that she had never seen before. “For your kindness in returning this original piece of my late husband work, I would like you to accept a small gift to show our appreciation.” She pulled out her check book and handed over a check for £12 000 which equated to just over $20 000 in Jake’s native-land, Canada. Jake nearly fell of his chair and said, “Mrs. I can’t accept this, this is way too generous.” The older women said “Young man, I believe that this drawing of my late husband has never been exhibited publicly, had it not been for you bringing it to me. It would have disappeared with him in passing. Beside I’m sure the British museum will pay a pretty penny for my Daniel’s work.” As she smiled gracefully.

Jake made his way back to London that evening with a feeling of bliss. Perhaps it was a turnaround point in his life or perhaps it wasn’t, but he would surely enjoy his time left and spend it with his family on a paid vacation back home to British Columbia.