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Authors: Michael Ridpath
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Tahiti. 'I'll do the numbers, but see what you think of the covenants.'
'Oh great, thanks,' she said, waving at the pile of prospectuses already surrounding her. 'I'll squeeze it into the half-hour between when I go to bed and when I get up.'
For all her complaining, I knew she would do a thorough job. And although she would never admit it, she approached the Tahiti documents with obvious enthusiasm.
'Oh, by the way,' she said, 'did you see the Gypsum of America stock price is up to thirteen dollars. Not bad, eh?'
'Not at all bad,' I smiled.
At least that little investment seemed to be going right.
CHAPTER 4
I was approaching home. The road became wilder as it made its way up the dale where I was born. Gently sloping banks grew into towering hillsides, a tartan of close-cropped grass, bracken and heather. It had rained earlier in the day, but the clouds had disbanded leaving a pale blue sky. The bright green of the grass and the bracken glistened in the sunlight; even the usually dour dry-stone walls shone like streaks of silver along the hillside. This drive up the dale never failed to invigorate me, no matter how long I had been cooped up in the car.
Eventually I came to a T-junction with a sign pointing straight up the hillside, announcing 'Barthwaite 3'. I turned up an impossibly steep road. In five minutes I topped the crest of a hill and looked down into the small valley in which the village of Barthwaite nestled. I drove down past the hard grey stone cottages, brightened up here and there by geraniums or lobelia sprouting from window boxes. I slowed down as I passed a narrow lane which led down to a large farm. The words 'Appletree Farm' were clearly painted on the white gate. It looked just as well kept as it had when I had lived there as a child. A new cattleshed, some modern machinery, but otherwise the same.
I drove on through the village, crossing the small river and up the hill on the other side. I stopped outside the last cottage, where village turned to moorland. I walked through the small front garden, brimming with hollyhocks, lavender, roses, gladioli and a host of colourful flowers whose names I did not know, and rapped the iron knocker of the front door, which was guarded by half a dozen tall foxgloves.
The small, bustling form of my mother was in the doorway in a moment.
'Come in, come in,' she said. 'Sit yourself down. Did you have a good journey? Can I get you a cup of tea? You must be tired.'
I was ushered in to the living room. 'Why don't you sit in Dad's chair,' she said, as she always did. 'It's nice and comfortable.' I sank into the old leather armchair and within a moment I was plied with scones and strawberry jam, both home-made. I commented on the garden and we spent a few minutes chatting about my mother's plans for it. Next came the village gossip, where I caught up on the latest scandalous activities of Mrs Kirby, Barthwaite's answer to Pamella Bordes. Then there was a long story about the problems my sister Linda was having getting the right covering for her settee, and the usual mild nagging that I hadn't dropped in to see her.
My mother didn't keep still for a moment during this conversation. She illustrated every point with elaborate hand movements and every minute or so got up to refill my cup, straighten up something in the room, or rush out to the kitchen to get some more cakes. Her face was slightly flushed as she talked rapidly on. She was a very energetic woman, throwing herself into everything that went on in the village. Everyone liked her. Despite her tendency to be a busybody, most of what she did or said was motivated by kindness or a genuine desire to help. And people still felt sorry for her. Seventeen years is not a long time in a Dales village.
The afternoon passed pleasantly. Then, after she had come back from the kitchen with some more tea, she said, 'I do wish your father would write. He has been in Australia a while now. You would have thought he could
'Oh great, thanks,' she said, waving at the pile of prospectuses already surrounding her. 'I'll squeeze it into the half-hour between when I go to bed and when I get up.'
For all her complaining, I knew she would do a thorough job. And although she would never admit it, she approached the Tahiti documents with obvious enthusiasm.
'Oh, by the way,' she said, 'did you see the Gypsum of America stock price is up to thirteen dollars. Not bad, eh?'
'Not at all bad,' I smiled.
At least that little investment seemed to be going right.
CHAPTER 4
I was approaching home. The road became wilder as it made its way up the dale where I was born. Gently sloping banks grew into towering hillsides, a tartan of close-cropped grass, bracken and heather. It had rained earlier in the day, but the clouds had disbanded leaving a pale blue sky. The bright green of the grass and the bracken glistened in the sunlight; even the usually dour dry-stone walls shone like streaks of silver along the hillside. This drive up the dale never failed to invigorate me, no matter how long I had been cooped up in the car.
Eventually I came to a T-junction with a sign pointing straight up the hillside, announcing 'Barthwaite 3'. I turned up an impossibly steep road. In five minutes I topped the crest of a hill and looked down into the small valley in which the village of Barthwaite nestled. I drove down past the hard grey stone cottages, brightened up here and there by geraniums or lobelia sprouting from window boxes. I slowed down as I passed a narrow lane which led down to a large farm. The words 'Appletree Farm' were clearly painted on the white gate. It looked just as well kept as it had when I had lived there as a child. A new cattleshed, some modern machinery, but otherwise the same.
I drove on through the village, crossing the small river and up the hill on the other side. I stopped outside the last cottage, where village turned to moorland. I walked through the small front garden, brimming with hollyhocks, lavender, roses, gladioli and a host of colourful flowers whose names I did not know, and rapped the iron knocker of the front door, which was guarded by half a dozen tall foxgloves.
The small, bustling form of my mother was in the doorway in a moment.
'Come in, come in,' she said. 'Sit yourself down. Did you have a good journey? Can I get you a cup of tea? You must be tired.'
I was ushered in to the living room. 'Why don't you sit in Dad's chair,' she said, as she always did. 'It's nice and comfortable.' I sank into the old leather armchair and within a moment I was plied with scones and strawberry jam, both home-made. I commented on the garden and we spent a few minutes chatting about my mother's plans for it. Next came the village gossip, where I caught up on the latest scandalous activities of Mrs Kirby, Barthwaite's answer to Pamella Bordes. Then there was a long story about the problems my sister Linda was having getting the right covering for her settee, and the usual mild nagging that I hadn't dropped in to see her.
My mother didn't keep still for a moment during this conversation. She illustrated every point with elaborate hand movements and every minute or so got up to refill my cup, straighten up something in the room, or rush out to the kitchen to get some more cakes. Her face was slightly flushed as she talked rapidly on. She was a very energetic woman, throwing herself into everything that went on in the village. Everyone liked her. Despite her tendency to be a busybody, most of what she did or said was motivated by kindness or a genuine desire to help. And people still felt sorry for her. Seventeen years is not a long time in a Dales village.
The afternoon passed pleasantly. Then, after she had come back from the kitchen with some more tea, she said, 'I do wish your father would write. He has been in Australia a while now. You would have thought he could
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