Read Online The Saffron Gate by Linda Holeman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Linda Holeman
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tasted, but it was delicious.
I thought of home, on the outskirts of Albany. Of my garden and the silence of this time of evening. If I didn't venture through the gate on to Juniper Road, days might go by when I saw no one, spoke to no one. I thought of the long, dark winter nights.
It all seemed so far away. It was far away, geographically, of course. But it wasn't just the distance. It was what had happened to me since those days, those endless, quiet days when I thought my life would always continue in that way. When my life consisted of small, certain pieces of a larger, but basically simple, puzzle.
When I was certain that I always knew where each piece fitted.
FIVE
I t was two years earlier — 1928 — when my father received a letter from a lawyer.
'Read it for me, darlin',' he'd said, anxiety on his face. 'I can't think what I've done wrong.'
'It doesn't mean anything's wrong, Dad,' I told "him, opening the letter and scanning it.
'Go on, then. What does it say?' ' I looked at him. 'Dad. Mr Harding has passed away.'
'Well,' my father said, sitting at the kitchen table. 'Poor auld soul. I knew he'd been ill some time.'
Mr Harding had been my father's last employer, the one who had been so kind when he had to terminate my father after fourteen years.
'And why would a lawyer be writing to me about it?' he asked.
I licked my lips, trying not to rush. I was sorry, of course, that Mr Harding had died, but he'd been ninety-two.
'You remember his car,' I stated.
'Which one, now? For he had quite a fleet of them,' my father said.
'Dad. The one you loved to drive the most. You always talked about it.'
He lifted his chin, smiling now. 'Ah. Yes, that would be the lovely Silver Ghost, wouldn't it? Such a thing of beauty. Driving it was like floating on a cloud.'
I well knew about the 1921 Rolls-Royce, with its British right-hand drive, its leather retractable roof, its drum headlamps and tubular bumpers.
'A long, sleek white body with oxblood trim,' my father went on now, smiling unconsciously. He picked up his pipe and tapped it on the ashtray; a clump of dottle fell from the bowl. 'I did love to drive that grand thing,' he said.
'Dad?' I stood, unable to keep my own smile from my face any longer. 'Mr Harding has left it to you. It's in his will, Dad. The car is yours.' My voice had risen with excitement.
But my father grew very still as I spoke. I waited for something — an exclamation, a burst of laughter, something — but he didn't move.
'Aren't you happy about it, Dad? You just said—'
He nodded. 'I know, my girl. I know what I said.'
'So why aren't you —'
Again he interrupted me. 'It's too late, Sidonie. The time for me to own a car like that is gone. You know I can't trust my own eyes.'
'You could still drive it in the day, when the light is bright,' I argued.
He looked at me. 'No. No, Sidonie. Even with the spectacles, I know I can't see well enough.'
I sat down, running my fingers over the embossed letterhead. 'But it's yours,' I said.
'What would I do with it?'
I sat straighter. 'I could drive it, Dad. You could teach me, and I could drive it for you. Wherever you want to go.' I was speaking quickly; thrilling myself at the idea. 'Just think, Dad. We could go wherever we wanted.'
There was silence.
'Dad? I could drive it,' I repeated.
'No, Sidonie,' he said, filling his pipe.
'What do you mean, no?' I watched as he tamped the tobacco into the round bowl with his thumb. 'Of course I can learn to drive. It can't be that difficult.'
'It takes coordination, hands and feet. Feet, Sidonie. You have to be able to use the pedals — the gas and brake and clutch. You'd have to be able to bend your knees freely. I don't think . . .' He glanced at my built-up shoe.
My mouth twisted. 'I can learn,' I said, loudly. 'I want to. I want that car.'
My father, looked surprised. 'Well. It's a rare day I hear that tone from you.'
I knew my voice was loud. But it excited me — the thought of driving. I realised nothing had
I thought of home, on the outskirts of Albany. Of my garden and the silence of this time of evening. If I didn't venture through the gate on to Juniper Road, days might go by when I saw no one, spoke to no one. I thought of the long, dark winter nights.
It all seemed so far away. It was far away, geographically, of course. But it wasn't just the distance. It was what had happened to me since those days, those endless, quiet days when I thought my life would always continue in that way. When my life consisted of small, certain pieces of a larger, but basically simple, puzzle.
When I was certain that I always knew where each piece fitted.
FIVE
I t was two years earlier — 1928 — when my father received a letter from a lawyer.
'Read it for me, darlin',' he'd said, anxiety on his face. 'I can't think what I've done wrong.'
'It doesn't mean anything's wrong, Dad,' I told "him, opening the letter and scanning it.
'Go on, then. What does it say?' ' I looked at him. 'Dad. Mr Harding has passed away.'
'Well,' my father said, sitting at the kitchen table. 'Poor auld soul. I knew he'd been ill some time.'
Mr Harding had been my father's last employer, the one who had been so kind when he had to terminate my father after fourteen years.
'And why would a lawyer be writing to me about it?' he asked.
I licked my lips, trying not to rush. I was sorry, of course, that Mr Harding had died, but he'd been ninety-two.
'You remember his car,' I stated.
'Which one, now? For he had quite a fleet of them,' my father said.
'Dad. The one you loved to drive the most. You always talked about it.'
He lifted his chin, smiling now. 'Ah. Yes, that would be the lovely Silver Ghost, wouldn't it? Such a thing of beauty. Driving it was like floating on a cloud.'
I well knew about the 1921 Rolls-Royce, with its British right-hand drive, its leather retractable roof, its drum headlamps and tubular bumpers.
'A long, sleek white body with oxblood trim,' my father went on now, smiling unconsciously. He picked up his pipe and tapped it on the ashtray; a clump of dottle fell from the bowl. 'I did love to drive that grand thing,' he said.
'Dad?' I stood, unable to keep my own smile from my face any longer. 'Mr Harding has left it to you. It's in his will, Dad. The car is yours.' My voice had risen with excitement.
But my father grew very still as I spoke. I waited for something — an exclamation, a burst of laughter, something — but he didn't move.
'Aren't you happy about it, Dad? You just said—'
He nodded. 'I know, my girl. I know what I said.'
'So why aren't you —'
Again he interrupted me. 'It's too late, Sidonie. The time for me to own a car like that is gone. You know I can't trust my own eyes.'
'You could still drive it in the day, when the light is bright,' I argued.
He looked at me. 'No. No, Sidonie. Even with the spectacles, I know I can't see well enough.'
I sat down, running my fingers over the embossed letterhead. 'But it's yours,' I said.
'What would I do with it?'
I sat straighter. 'I could drive it, Dad. You could teach me, and I could drive it for you. Wherever you want to go.' I was speaking quickly; thrilling myself at the idea. 'Just think, Dad. We could go wherever we wanted.'
There was silence.
'Dad? I could drive it,' I repeated.
'No, Sidonie,' he said, filling his pipe.
'What do you mean, no?' I watched as he tamped the tobacco into the round bowl with his thumb. 'Of course I can learn to drive. It can't be that difficult.'
'It takes coordination, hands and feet. Feet, Sidonie. You have to be able to use the pedals — the gas and brake and clutch. You'd have to be able to bend your knees freely. I don't think . . .' He glanced at my built-up shoe.
My mouth twisted. 'I can learn,' I said, loudly. 'I want to. I want that car.'
My father, looked surprised. 'Well. It's a rare day I hear that tone from you.'
I knew my voice was loud. But it excited me — the thought of driving. I realised nothing had
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