no idea that she’s gone, that she’s dead. His next question clinches it.
“Is she there? Your mother?”
I pause, take a breath, then, “No, no she isn’t. I’m afraid, I’m sorry, I… My mother died. She died in March, a road accident. I’m sorry—I should have let you know.”
“Sharon, that is bad news. Very bad. I loved your mother, she was—beautiful. As you are, I know from your pictures. We spoke often, Susan and I. She told me all about you, sent me pictures. She gave you my cards, yes? And presents?”
His reaction is more than I might have expected, given that to my knowledge they never saw each other again after my mother returned to the UK before I was born.
“Yes, yes, she did. Thank you.”
“And she had no other children, no?”
“No, just me.”
“And I know your grandparents are dead also. Do you have others? Other family to take care of you?”
“No, no other family.” But as I look around the room I can see I have friends. And for now, that will do fine.
The rest of my twenty-first birthday passed in a sort of heady dream. After a stilted start, I found my father incredibly easy to chat to. He was interested in me, and already knew quite a lot about me. He even knew about baby David, though not my stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure. My mother was clearly in regular contact with him more or less up to her death. Many respectable marriages are less durable than their somewhat unorthodox relationship was, it would seem.
Bajram’s other two daughters, my younger half-sisters, were in the room with him when he phoned me and he suggested putting our conversation on speaker phone for them to join in too. That was my cue to do the same at my end, and soon all eight of us were chatting as if we’d known each other for years. Some of us sort of had.
Bajram soon sussed the relationship between Tom and I, and quizzed him quite closely regarding his prospects and intentions. It was all rather quaint, and to his credit Tom was incredibly polite to my new-found father. He promised to take good care of me when pressed and I daresay he was sincere, although I couldn’t help but wonder if Bajram would have included whips and spanking within that definition. My mother, too, would be turning in her grave if she knew what I was contemplating. And she would be positively spinning if she knew how much I was looking forward to it.
Chapter Five
The party breaks up after an hour or so as Nathan and his household get ready to drift off back to Black Combe, taking Barney with them. Under no illusion that I probably owe my life to that huge mutt, I’m incredibly sorry to see him go. On impulse I kneel in front of him, which puts his eye level a few inches above mine, and fling my arms around his thick, solid neck. I hug him as I did two nights ago, huddled under that wall out on the cold moor. He endures my attentions stoically enough. Then Rosie comes up with another of her brilliant ideas.
“Why don’t you take Barney with you when you go out taking pictures. He gets lonely when I’m at school, and he has to stay at home. But he could be out with you. Then you can carry on being his friend. And when it’s not school, I’ll come too. I could, couldn’t I?” She was looking from me to Nathan, expectant, hopeful.
I guess she’s missed her excursions with me as much as I’ve missed having her along.
“I— That’d be lovely. As long as your daddy doesn’t mind…?”
Nathan grins from behind her, his arm looped casually around her neck. “No, Daddy doesn’t mind. It’s a good idea, princess. Barney’ll love it, especially chasing along after a quad. It’ll be good for him, help keep him fit.” He glances up at me. “Just come round by our place whenever you want to pick him up.”
“Thank you. I will.” And so, I now have a companion for my trips up onto the moors. At least one.
* * * *
Tom and I take the quads up onto the moorland behind the farm on the pretext of checking
“Is she there? Your mother?”
I pause, take a breath, then, “No, no she isn’t. I’m afraid, I’m sorry, I… My mother died. She died in March, a road accident. I’m sorry—I should have let you know.”
“Sharon, that is bad news. Very bad. I loved your mother, she was—beautiful. As you are, I know from your pictures. We spoke often, Susan and I. She told me all about you, sent me pictures. She gave you my cards, yes? And presents?”
His reaction is more than I might have expected, given that to my knowledge they never saw each other again after my mother returned to the UK before I was born.
“Yes, yes, she did. Thank you.”
“And she had no other children, no?”
“No, just me.”
“And I know your grandparents are dead also. Do you have others? Other family to take care of you?”
“No, no other family.” But as I look around the room I can see I have friends. And for now, that will do fine.
The rest of my twenty-first birthday passed in a sort of heady dream. After a stilted start, I found my father incredibly easy to chat to. He was interested in me, and already knew quite a lot about me. He even knew about baby David, though not my stay at Her Majesty’s pleasure. My mother was clearly in regular contact with him more or less up to her death. Many respectable marriages are less durable than their somewhat unorthodox relationship was, it would seem.
Bajram’s other two daughters, my younger half-sisters, were in the room with him when he phoned me and he suggested putting our conversation on speaker phone for them to join in too. That was my cue to do the same at my end, and soon all eight of us were chatting as if we’d known each other for years. Some of us sort of had.
Bajram soon sussed the relationship between Tom and I, and quizzed him quite closely regarding his prospects and intentions. It was all rather quaint, and to his credit Tom was incredibly polite to my new-found father. He promised to take good care of me when pressed and I daresay he was sincere, although I couldn’t help but wonder if Bajram would have included whips and spanking within that definition. My mother, too, would be turning in her grave if she knew what I was contemplating. And she would be positively spinning if she knew how much I was looking forward to it.
Chapter Five
The party breaks up after an hour or so as Nathan and his household get ready to drift off back to Black Combe, taking Barney with them. Under no illusion that I probably owe my life to that huge mutt, I’m incredibly sorry to see him go. On impulse I kneel in front of him, which puts his eye level a few inches above mine, and fling my arms around his thick, solid neck. I hug him as I did two nights ago, huddled under that wall out on the cold moor. He endures my attentions stoically enough. Then Rosie comes up with another of her brilliant ideas.
“Why don’t you take Barney with you when you go out taking pictures. He gets lonely when I’m at school, and he has to stay at home. But he could be out with you. Then you can carry on being his friend. And when it’s not school, I’ll come too. I could, couldn’t I?” She was looking from me to Nathan, expectant, hopeful.
I guess she’s missed her excursions with me as much as I’ve missed having her along.
“I— That’d be lovely. As long as your daddy doesn’t mind…?”
Nathan grins from behind her, his arm looped casually around her neck. “No, Daddy doesn’t mind. It’s a good idea, princess. Barney’ll love it, especially chasing along after a quad. It’ll be good for him, help keep him fit.” He glances up at me. “Just come round by our place whenever you want to pick him up.”
“Thank you. I will.” And so, I now have a companion for my trips up onto the moors. At least one.
* * * *
Tom and I take the quads up onto the moorland behind the farm on the pretext of checking
Similar Books
