Alison Giles - Meadowland

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

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.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication.

Source ISBN: 9781857026092

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007468898

Version: 2016-02-29

Cover

Title Page MEADOWLAND Alison Giles

Copyright Copyright Copyright Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 About the Author About the Publisher Fourth Estate An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk 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. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. HarperCollins Publishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication. Source ISBN: 9781857026092 Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007468898 Version: 2016-02-29

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

About the Author

About the Publisher

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 a tractor silhouetted against its cartload of hay. I slammed on the brakes. My God, this really was the back of beyond. I pulled over against the hedge and winced as I heard the scrape of branches along the Astra’s polished paintwork. To my right, the tractor teetered up on to the verge, avoiding tipping its trailer into the ditch by scarcely the width of a theatre ticket. The driver – round-faced under a tangle of curly hair – grinned down at me, mouthing his thanks. I nodded acknowledgement, forcing the corners of my mouth upwards against the downward thrust of lips clamped tight in irritation. The books – which had shot forward into the well – seemed to stare at me reproachfully.

Jerking at the gearstick, I revved the engine and the car leapt forward. The parcel shuddered, held its point of balance for a moment, then toppled sideways, leaving the page edges uppermost. They looked vulnerable, less powerful. That pleased me.

I relaxed a little, slowed to negotiate another narrow bend and began to ponder just what I would say to Flora when I came face to face with her. The road was beginning to climb now, up through an avenue of oaks and beeches merging on either side into gladed woodland. Through the trees to the west, a light airiness hung above the dip of the valley, the hills beyond curving the horizon. Despite all my misgivings, it was hard to resist the serenity.