Meadowland. Alison Giles
Читать онлайн.| Название | Meadowland |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Alison Giles |
| Жанр | Зарубежные любовные романы |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Зарубежные любовные романы |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780007468898 |
MEADOWLAND
Alison Giles
Fourth Estate
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain in 1998 by Fourth Estate
Copyright © 1998 by Alison Giles
The right of Alison Giles to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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Source ISBN: 9781857026092
Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007468898 Version: 2016-02-29
Contents
I knew it was a mistake to go and see Flora; but nonetheless I went. Although it was the weekend, I dressed for the occasion in the tailored red suit with its fashionably short skirt which I normally reserved for the office. As a concession to my destination I settled on lowish heels.
The final miles of my journey, an hour and a half’s drive west of London, led me away from the drone of the motorway and into a valley. The road, a thin yellow line on my map, coiled itself loosely round the river across a series of what had once been packhorse bridges, now strengthened but rarely widened. February sunlight glinted on fallowed fields and on pastures churned up around the feeding troughs into waterlogged mires.
As I drove, I glanced at the pile of books perched sedately on the passenger seat. The bundle, secured with doubled string, had the air of some little old woman – not quite tall enough to peer through the windscreen; too polite to complain of the lack of view; occupying herself instead with scrutinising the dashboard. I half expected remonstration at my speed.
I eased off the accelerator. The whole thing was ridiculous, of course. I could have posted them back; I should have posted them. But to do so would have been to refuse my father’s last request.
He had waited until my mother left the ward to speak to the sister. Then, lacking the energy to lift his head from the starched pillow, he gestured me closer. ‘I want you to do something for me,’ he whispered. He described where to find the volumes. ‘Return them to Flora. Yourself. Please!’
My mother had tripped back before I had time to reply. But as we said our farewells that evening, his eyes pleaded with me; reluctantly, resentfully even, I nodded. He died that night at about the time my mother and I, hastily summoned, fretted at a red light at the bottom of the hill.
Now three weeks later here I was, deep into unknown countryside, propelled by a collection of dog-eared books towards the home of a woman whose existence I had for over twelve years dutifully ignored.
Rounding a corner, I found my way blocked by