Jonathan's Tales

Welcome to my shop, which currently houses three published volumes of Jonathan's Tales. A fourth volume will be added very soon. People sometimes say that the art of storytelling is dead. Perhaps it is—generally. But I am here to tell my story, and to show that storytelling is in fact alive, well, and kicking.

My journey began 60 years ago in an English language classroom.

At that time, my young life had already been shadowed by loss. A few years earlier, my father and mother had left the family home. In consequence, my beloved older sister Pat was taken from me—separated from me and from my younger brother Peter (who was just one year younger than I was). Life felt as though it had shifted beneath my feet.

But now—back to the English class.

English was one of my favourite subjects, made even more precious by my admiration for the English teacher: Mr Crannigan. By all accounts, he was a wizened, frail old man, with damaged lungs from having been "gassed" during the First World War. He was also a man of great humanity and wisdom. He had a profound influence on me.

One day, he set us an essay. The subject was any topic but write from your imagination: "Write about something that has moved you." he said. He then read one story aloud—and
to my utter shock, it was mine.

After finishing, he paused, as
though in deep reflection, before saying gravely and—almost prophetically:

“That was a story by Tom
Kissack. Mark my words, class—one day he will be a great storyteller and
writer.”

Those words stayed with me. They became a kind of north star—a direction, a purpose, a reason to keep going.

The Defining Losses That Shaped My Life

Almost thirty years later, I received the news that would change my life again. But before that, tragedy returned—not quietly, but suddenly.

My brother Peter died on his way to watch Manchester United play in a cup final at Wembley. He fell from a train in a tragic accident. I always remember the day I learned.

I was living at the time with my first wife in a Royal Air Force quarter in Lincolnshire. We came home, and through the glass door I saw a white envelope on the mat. I felt an irrational certainty that something terrible had happened. I backed away from the door, clinging to my wife as if holding on could delay reality.

"I don't want to open the letter, love," I said. "Something has happened."

She opened it for me—because it was addressed to me by name.

I was immediately summoned to the Guardroom, where a duty Warrant Officer informed me, gravely, that my brother had died. He was only twenty-one. This was 1976, and it remains one of the defining moments of my life.

Life continued after that too—but not without further loss. My father, a stranger to me even then (having been a deep-sea skipper of a fishing boat), had already passed away. And then, in the early 1990s, my mother was taken as well.

Family gloom became part of the backdrop of everything that followed.

My first marriage lasted only one year. We were both very young, and our lives didn't fit together. Then I remarried nearly a decade later. Ten years after that, a beautiful baby girl was born.

I was also fortunate to enjoy a second career: I worked as a London University Marketing Manager.

And yet, strange as it sounds, Mr Crannigan's words began to come true—not only through writing, but through telling lives as stories.

In my work, I curated graduate success stories each year, writing a magazine twice a year and sharing them at open days, higher education fairs, and school visits—not just across Britain, but in several countries abroad.

And when my daughter was six years old, I began telling her bedtime stories too.

Another Marriage, Another Heartbreak

My second marriage lasted a long time—twenty-seven years—but eventually, for several reasons, I took steps to dissolve it. My daughter was fourteen at the time. When I left the family home, she expressed sympathy, though the details are not mine to share.

But then, months later, a bombshell arrived: my daughter refused to meet me or speak to me.

Years passed. I saw her only occasionally, by accident, living in the same town.

And then—after the further pain of losing my beloved sister Pat—I experienced tragedy again.

Christina's Death: Prague, a Phone Call, and Silence

I was holidaying in Prague for a week, on the last two days with my new wife and our three-year-old son, Jonathan.

My wife and our son were in a crystal shop with her Chinese friend. I was lingering outside when my phone rang.

I remember thinking: Who is calling me here? I had recently left my job early for retirement—so it couldn't be work.

I answered, and it was a vicar: a gentle, sincere man—pastor of the church we had attended, with Sarah (my second wife) and our daughter long ago.

He asked if I was alone.

I replied, no—and explained where my family were.

Then he said, carefully and with deep sorrow:

"Tom… I am very sorry to tell you. Your daughter has died. She passed away peacefully and unexpectedly in her sleep a few nights back. The entire world and its dog has been looking for you. Your former work gave a head's up to the police, and they contacted me. I have your number."

My mind went numb. Christina was only twenty-one—the same age my brother had been when he died.

I listened to the vicar's comforting words almost separately from myself. He closed by saying he would share more details if he learned them, including funeral arrangements once known.

Then the phone went dead.

And I realised I was crying—tears streaming down my face.

I always believed that when Christina left university, she was in her final year, and that with time and maturity we might rebuild our relationship. But life had other plans.

Life cruelly said: Not so. You now have to wait an eternity.