Page 33 of The Way We Are Now

John Dyson’s pride and joy was his Audi Quattro which he’d drive around Rothersley at speed. I’d always felt slightly carsick in it, urging him to slow down as he showed off, taking corners unnecessarily quickly.

‘Friend of mine from university,’ I explained. ‘Off for a drink with him, Mum. I’ll see you later.’ I handed her the brown envelope. ‘Can you make sure our Les or someone gets these?’ My brother Les, despite being only eighteen, had embraced the whole strike action with a militance never before seen in our family and, while both Mum and especially Dad agreed totally in principle with what Les said and did, I knew they worried about where his overly combative stance might take him.

‘I’m off, Mum.’

‘What about your tea? Are you back for your tea…? Shall I keep you something…?’ Mum was following me down the lane, trying, I knew, to see – without appearing too nosy – just who was in the Mini’s driving seat.

‘It’s fine, Mum, really. I won’t be late.’

‘OK?’ Theo asked as, once again, he’d made his way round to open the car door for me. I was conscious of the eyes of those at The Alamo turned towards the stranger. We were a tight-knit community and, especially at the moment, in the middle of militant action, strangers were looked upon with, if not exactly suspicion, then caution.

‘Fine, yes,’ I said hurriedly, sitting and pulling on the seat belt.

‘Goodness,’ Theo said with a slight laugh, ‘I can see why it’s called The Alamo. I thought I might have to give a password? Show some credentials. Right, come on, then, my being a North Yorkshire native, you can show me the delights of South Yorkshire.’

‘There really are some beautiful places round here, you know,’ I said. I wasn’t quite sure, by his tone, if Theo wasn’t offering up cynicism about the area.

We drove almost in silence for the first ten minutes, the only words spoken being my directions towards the village of Cawthorne and Theo reiterating: ‘Down here? This way?’

As he concentrated on the unfamiliar roads and winding country lanes, I was able to steal covetous glances in his direction, taking in his profile, his olive skin, his dark blond hair which, every now and again, he’d run a hand through. When he did, occasionally take a brief look across at me, and I met the incredibly beautiful brown eyes that searched out my own, I realised I’d fallen in love with his face, his eyes, his confidence that very first time in the Wimpy Bar when Fliss had pointed Theo Mandeville out to me. I studied his hands, tanned and confident on the steering wheel, imagining them cupping my face, unbuttoning my shirt, and I had to shift slightly on the seat.

‘You’re right,’ Theo suddenly said and I jumped slightly. Gosh, if he knew what I was thinking: where I’d been with him in my fantasies!

‘Right?’

‘It’s absolutely stunning round here.’

‘It is.’ I felt pride at his words. ‘You’re very tanned,’ I went on when he didn’t say anything further. ‘You’ve not got a tan like that in Yorkshire.’

‘No.’ He paused and then relented. ‘My godmother has a place in Cortina.’

‘Cortina?’ Wasn’t that the name of a car?

‘Cortina d’Ampezzo.’

‘Oh?’

‘She skis. She knows I love skiing and, you know…’

I didn’t know – Theo obviously inhabited a totally different world to my own.

‘She’s very generous – lets me and a friend stay and ski whenever we want. It was a particularly warm end of season this year. We were able to sunbathe when we stopped for lunch as well as ski.’

A friend? Again, I had visions of the blonde but, instead of on the squash court effortlessly hitting back every ball Theo sent her way, this time competently skiing after him down a snow-filled valley. ‘Not your family?’ I asked, pushing the blonde out of my mind’s eye.

Theo actually laughed. ‘My mother thinks it very infra dig…’

If I knew what infra dig meant I’d have been able to comment. I was just about to say something to that effect when he went on, ‘…and my father doesn’t often leave the estate.’

‘Oh? Is he ill?’ Disabled maybe? I envisaged a somewhat cantankerous elderly man in a wheelchair, refusing to leave the house.

Theo laughed. ‘Ill? No, not at all. Just thinks skiing and golf are frivolous. He’d rather be out shooting.’

‘Shooting?’

‘The estate is geared up for shooting. The glorious twelfth and all that?’

The glorious twelfth what? Egg? Disciple? The last of the tribe of Israel? What else came in twelves? And why was it glorious? I didn’t like to show my ignorance by asking, so just nodded knowingly. I was saved from answering as we rounded the next corner, and the Mandeville Arms was there on the left.