Matty Part 6

Matty Part 6 - Springtime

As the spring wore on and the days lengthened, and the weather became gradually warmer, activity in the Yorkshire Dales increased. There were more cars on the narrow winding roads, and more queues behind cars towing caravans. The lambs in the fields fattened and grew, and raced about as though their legs were made of coiled springs. The grass became even more lush and green, and even the most reluctant of the deciduous trees finally allowed their fresh green leaves to burst forth. And the clematis and rhododendrons in the cottage gardens exploded in a riot of colour.

As more tourists, ramblers and anglers arrived in Whartondale, the staff in the pubs and cafés put out more tables and chairs in their beer gardens and onto their patios. The shops selling gifts and postcards and walking books and maps and ice cream began to see an increase in trade. The muddy footpaths became more passable, and ramblers and picnickers began to sit on the banks of the River Wharton, the braver of them paddling in the cold clear water.

In the factories and offices of Leeds and Bradford the workforce began to make plans for the forthcoming Spring Bank Holiday, or Whitsuntide, as some of the old hands still insisted on calling it. Some who had arranged to take additional days were preparing to fly off to warmer climates, not trusting the British weather. Others studied the long-range weather forecast and tried to decide whether to stay at home for the holiday, or to have a few days away; perhaps bed and breakfast somewhere along the Yorkshire coastline, or camping in The Dales or The Lake District. Many planned to celebrate the Queen’s Golden Jubilee by attending parties or special events in Leeds and Bradford, while others were looking forward to watching the start of the World Cup on television.

David Lord was no different to his less wealthy colleagues and employees. The need to get away from it all was at the back of his mind too. Aware of the depressed state of manufacturing, and not least his own group of companies, he had put in long hours with his executives. Because of the serious lack of orders and pressure from the city over the still depressed share price, he had ordered his managing directors to freeze all capital spending and to reduce the number of employees in all but two of the Durell Industries UK factories by fifteen percent. Though he had been persuaded to delay the announcement of this until the following week, after the Spring Bank Holiday.

Meanwhile his negotiations with the German engineering company, Muller-Denko GMBH, had gone well, but had required three more trips to Germany, and much time to be spent on entertaining Muller-Denko’s executives in the UK, including two dinner parties at The Manor.

But just when the two companies were on the verge of signing an agreement, subject to teams of lawyers from both, checking and approving the fine detail, Muller-Denco had pulled out.

‘Weeks of fucking work down the fucking drain!’ David shouted, as he paced his office.

Michel Phillips, Durell’s Sales Director, and Raymond Richardson, Durell’s northern MD, sat in front of David’s desk, looking suitably disgusted.

‘Perhaps if we go back over to Germany after the holidays…’ began Richardson.

‘If I go back over there, it’ll be with a fucking gun to shoot the bastards,’ replied David.

‘I think that’s been tried a couple of times before,’ said Phillips, glibly.

A red light on the telephone on David’s desk began to flash and he walked over and picked up the receiver.

‘Yes!’

‘Sorry to disturb you, David,’ said Valerie Smith, David’s personal secretary, ‘but I have your daughter on the line.’

David’s face softened a little. ‘Okay, thank you, Valerie, put her through please. Hello?’

‘Yo, Dad.’

‘Hello, Sarah. Thanks for… Just hold for a minute please.’ David turned towards his two directors. ‘We may as well call it a day. I’ll get Valerie to schedule a meeting for Wednesday, and we’ll see what can be done.’

‘Okay, David,’ said Raymond Richardson, standing up from his chair and moving towards the door. ‘If I don’t see you before, have a nice break.’

‘Yeah, same here,’ said Michel Phillips, as he stood up and followed his colleague.

‘Thanks, guys, same to you.’ David, turned to look out of the window and speak into the phone once more. ‘Thanks for phoning back, Sarah. Have you got any plans for the holiday?’

‘I thought I’d drive up and see you, Dad. I haven’t seen you since Christmas.’

‘You were invited to come at Easter.’

‘Oh, yeah. As if I’d have come to Yorkshire when I had an offer to go to Gran Canaria.’

‘How was Gran Canaria?’ asked David.

‘Oh, it was good! We had a right laugh. Why are you asking about Spring Bank?’

‘I thought we might go to Abersoch. Have two or three days on Silver Cloud.’

‘What about Philippa?’

‘I’ve asked her, but you know how she is about sailing,’ David replied.

‘Well you did almost drown us that time off Pwllheli.’

‘I did not! We just got caught in a bad storm that’s all. I got you both back safe and sound didn’t I?’
‘Yeah. Philippa was sick as a dog though wasn’t she?’ said Sarah. ‘Got no sailing blood in her like you and me,’

‘How’s university?’ asked David. ‘You working hard?’

‘Yeah! I’m getting good assessments. You know me.’

‘That’s the trouble,’ said David, laughing. ‘How’s your mother?’

‘Oh, she’s fine. She’s got a new bloke. I’ll dish the dirt on him at the weekend.’

‘You want to come then?’

‘Course! You’ll pick me up at home?

‘Yeah, Saturday morning. Seven-thirty.’

‘Seven-thirty! In your dreams!’

‘Seven-thirty on the dot. I’ll have to be up a lot earlier to get to Altringham for then.’

***

David and Philippa Lord sat facing each other at their usual table at The Gables, an exclusive hotel and restaurant on the outskirts of Ilkley. David wearing a well tailored grey suit and blue tie, and Philippa a long-sleeved black dress and gold necklace.

‘So it’s all off then?’ said Philippa, ironically, as she cut carefully along the spine of her fresh sea bass and lifted the flesh gently to one side. ‘All my culinary and entertaining skills wasted.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ replied David, talking through a mouthful of fillet steak.

Philippa tasted the bass and made a small groaning noise in her throat, chewing gently and swallowing. ‘Well, it was fun while it lasted. I enjoyed the cooking. And practising my German. What will you do now?’

‘Don’t know yet,’ replied David, taking a sip of his red wine. ‘I need to forget about it for a few days. Come at it fresh, after the holiday. Are you sure you don’t want to come tomorrow? Sarah asked if you were coming.’

‘No, if you move the yacht to Windermere I’ll think about it, but the high seas are not for me, not after the last time. Anyway, I’ve promised John Tillman I’ll judge the craft competition at the church fête.’

‘How come you’re interested in going to church all of a sudden?’ David asked.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not getting religion. But it’s always nice to take part in community events. You should do more of that sort of thing,’ Philippa replied.

‘You realise he’s just hoping for a nice big fat donation,’ said David, pouring himself another glass of wine.

‘Well I hope you won’t disappoint him then.’

A waiter came over to the table looking very solicitous. ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Sir, Madam?’ he asked.

‘Perfect as always,’ replied Philippa with a smile.

‘Mmm.’ David nodded his agreement, chewing on another mouthful of steak as the waiter walked away smiling in anticipation of a generous tip.

***

David Lord parked his Jaguar beside the office building and climbed out of the driver’s seat with a groan. He stretched, and rubbed his back.

‘Getting old, Pops?’ said Sarah Lord, as she opened the passenger door and stepped out into the bright late morning sunshine, smelling the salty sea air. She was a tall, slim, attractive girl, her hair blond and her eyes blue. She wore trainers, hipster-style jeans, a broad leather belt and a short pink top that revealed the silver ring that was attached to her navel.

‘Won’t be a minute,’ said David, as he walked towards the small brick-built office bearing the sign ‘Johnson’s Boat Yard – Abersoch’.

David had risen early, dressed quickly and quietly and picked up his prepared travel bag, before descending the stairs to the hall. In the kitchen he had drunk a small glass of fresh orange juice, and with a pang of guilt, scribbled a note for Philippa, which read: Have a nice weekend. Back Tuesday. David. Then he had picked up his bag and a small cardboard box full of provisions and left. As expected, the roads had been virtually empty, and not until David had reached the motorway had the traffic started to build up. But he had still made very good time and was outside his ex-wife’s house in Altringham at almost exactly seven-thirty. To his slight astonishment Sarah had been ready and waiting, and they were on their way as soon as she had thrown her suitcase into the boot of the car. The drive into, and through, North Wales had been uneventful, the roads quiet, and the scenery, as always, beautiful. They had stopped briefly at a small transport café and quickly devoured a plate of hot buttered toast and two cups of coffee.

Sarah stood and looked around the boatyard at the sleek white yachts. There was a constant pinging sound as the sea breeze rattled the lines on the masts. A young man painting an upturned dingy gave Sarah a sidelong look, and she eyed him critically for a few seconds before turning towards the office, wondering what was keeping her father.
TO BE CONTINUED