In 1946, more than thirty years ago, I was still unmarried and living with my mother. I was making a fair income by writing two short stories a year. Each of them took four months to complete, and fortunately there were people both at home and abroad who were willing to buy them.
One morning in April of that year, I read in the newspaper about a remarkable find of Roman silver. It had been discovered four years before by a ploughman near Mildenhall, in the county of Suffolk, but the discovery had for some reason been kept secret until then. The newspaper article said it was the greatest treasure ever found in the British Isles, and it had now been acquired by the British Museum. The name of the ploughman was given as Gordon Butcher.
True stories about the finding of really big treasure send shivers of electricity all the way down my legs to the soles of my feet. The moment I read the story, I leapt up from my chair without finishing my breakfast and shouted good-bye to my mother and rushed out to my car. The car was a nine-year-old Wolseley, and I called it ‘The Hard Black Slinker’. It went well but not very fast.
Mildenhall was about a hundred and twenty miles from my home, a tricky cross-country trip along twisty roads and country lanes. I got there at lunchtime, and by asking at the local police station, I found the small house where Gordon Butcher lived with his family. He was at home having his lunch when I knocked on his door.
I asked him if he would mind talking to me about how he found the treasure.
‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’ve had enough of reporters. I don’t want to see another reporter for the rest of my life.’
‘I’m not a reporter,’ I told him. ‘I’m a short-story writer and I sell my work to magazines. They pay good money.’ I went on to say that if he would tell me exactly how he found the treasure then I would write a truthful story about it. And if I was lucky enough to sell it, I would split the money equally with him.
In the end, he agreed to talk to me. We sat for several hours in his kitchen, and he told me an enthralling story. When he had finished, I paid a visit to the other man in the affair, an older fellow called Ford. Ford wouldn’t talk to me and closed the door in my face. But by then I had my story and I set out for home.
The next morning, I went up to the British Museum in London to see the treasure that Gordon Butcher had found. It was fabulous. I got the shivers all over again just from looking at it.
I wrote the story as truthfully as I possibly could and sent it off to America. It was bought by a magazine called the Saturday Evening Post, and I was well paid. When the money arrived, I sent exactly half of it to Gordon Butcher in Mildenhall.
One week later, I received a letter from Mr Butcher written upon what must have been a page torn from a child’s school exercise-book. It said, ‘… you could have knocked me over with a feather when I saw your cheque. It was lovely. I want to thank you …’
Here is the story almost exactly as it was written thirty years ago. I’ve changed it very little. I’ve simply toned down some of the more flowery passages and taken out a number of superfluous adjectives and unnecessary sentences.