Inheritance

Chapter Three. The Delivery.

Chapter Three 

The Delivery 

Although John was in prime physical condition, he never managed to ride the bike all the way up the steep fell road out of Arrad Foot. It wasn't the gradient that defeated him, but rather the gushing sound of a nearby  stream that had a singular effect on tea-drinking postmen. A visit to the privacy of a copse was an every day event. 

Relieved, John reached the brow of the hill and Lakeland Cottage. Jim Chadwick, a renowned local gardener, who had lived there his whole life, greeted him at the door. 

"Now, Ethel, here's the young fella' we've been waiting for. Come on in, lad, and help us choose our Boxing Day wine." 

Empty bottles and several large pewter jugs filled with frothing liquids covered a huge oaken table in the white stone walled kitchen. Mrs. Chadwick poured out five small samples  of their homemade wines. The choice seemed to be between a white, a rose and three reds.  

"Which one would you like to try first?" she asked. 

"I don't have to drink the whole thing do I?" spluttered John, fully aware of his worsening condition. 

"Of course not. Just take a little sip of each. I think you'll like them, and it is the festive season after all." 

"I'll try the white first."  

John sipped.  

"Do you like it?" 

John didn't want to upset the brew master by saying that it tasted like burnt potatoes.

"It's a little bitter for me, and awfully strong." 

"Damn it, Ethel, not again," said Mr. Chadwick, who had obviously been hoping for a positive reaction. 

"Don't mind him, son. He tends to get carried away with his drinks. Now let's try the others. Would you like some bread and water before the next tasting?" 

"No, that's fine." 

Much to John's surprise, the pale pink concoction proved to be a very dry, tart drink. The reds were sweet and fruity.  

"Well then?" 

"This is my favourite," said John, holding aloft the tastiest red. 

"It's elderberry for everyone again this year, Ethel. I was hoping we might use the raspberry but not quite right yet." 

"Maybe John would like to share some fruit cake with us, and wash it down with the rest of his glass of elderberry." 

"I really shouldn't, Mrs. Chadwick. I still have a few calls to make." 

"Well, be on your way then, but here's a little something for your stocking."  

The gallon bottle of Chadwick's finest elderberry was far from little, but John managed to squeeze it into his mailbag. 

"Don't break it whatever you do." 

"I won't, Mrs. Chadwick. Merry Christmas" 

The Chadwicks must have been Mrs. Case's drunkards because the rest of the journey to the next farm was alcohol free, that is if you discount the suspiciously moist trifle at the manor, and the  brandied mince pies at the Athersmith's. 

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