Inheritance

Chapter Three. The Delivery.

John's faculties were more than slightly impaired as he cautiously entered the Low Ghyll Farm gates. He had learned from bitter experience to leave the bike outside and to keep alert. Bob, the sheepdog, had no love of the mail, and was famous for sneaky backside attacks. 

"Don't worry, mate, we've locked him up for the day," a jovial farmhand announced  

"Thanks a lot. I couldn't wish for a better Christmas present." 

"Good job cos' I don't think the old skinflint has 'owt for ye." 

The farmhand was right. Apart from a gruff, "late today aint ye?" from the farm owner it could have been any day of the year. Glancing up the hillside towards the dreaded Topping Rays, John wished it were any day but Christmas Eve. 

                                                                               *****

As he slowly climbed the hill, he saw Mrs. Atkinson hanging out the morning wash. She was obviously watching for him and gave a friendly wave before bustling down to the garden gate. 

"We were getting worried, John. The girls didn't want to miss you. I think they've something special for you. They've taken quite a shine to you."  

Normally this would have been quite flattering, but John had only seen two girls about the farm and the elder was all of eight years old. "Why didn't this happen at the Edgars?" he thought. 

"Come in for a minute and look at our decorations." 

Reluctantly John entered the farmhouse kitchen that was festooned with paper streamers and balloons. The two young girls were in the process of hanging a banner on the far wall. It read, Welcome home, Granny.  

"Do you think she'll see it here, Mom?" asked Joan, the elder of the two girls. 

"Oh I'm sure it will be the first thing to catch her eye. Are you almost finished because it's nearly time to leave for the station to meet the train, and we still have to give John his treat?" 

With the banner firmly ensconced, the two young girls, dressed in their finest, stooped under the decorated fir in the corner and simultaneously picked up the gift that had obviously been personally wrapped. With shy smiles and beetroot complexions, they handed their gift to John. 

"Make him promise, Mom," said Joan, turning to her mother. 

"No. You ask " 

"Oh, Mom!" 

"What's the problem, Mrs. Atkinson?" 

"No problem. They just don't want you to open the present until tomorrow, and that you promise to read the special message inside." 

"For sure. Thanks very much,girls," John said, with a smile that sent the girls scurrying for cover. "What did I say?" 

"Oh never mind the girls. They're being silly this morning. They're so excited. It's Christmas Eve and their Granny from Preston is coming to visit." 

John gulped.  

"From where?"  

"Preston." 

His stomach started to churn.  

"Are you all right? Come and sit over here. Let me give you a shot of toddy." 

"No thanks, Mrs. Atkinson. I just suddenly felt a little faint." 

"Don't be silly. This is just what the doctor ordered." 

The hot liquid soon restored the colour to John's cheeks, but didn't alter his resolve. He deftly removed the dreaded letter from the pile of cards he had prepared for delivery and secreted it into the open side pocket of his anorak. He then thanked Mrs. Atkinson for all her kindness, gave her the rest of the mail, and made a hurried exit, his heart heavy. 

John mounted his bike for the steep descent to Low Ghyll, wondering if he had made the right decision. In his flustered state, he didn't notice that the straps used to tie the mailbag to the pannier had worked loose. It took the clanking sound of the metal buckle striking the rapidly revolving spokes to bring John to his senses. However, that last toddy seemed to have had an adverse effect on his coordination and he seemed incapable of grasping the errant strap. Repeatedly, he tried to catch the waving leather. Too late. A sharp bend lay directly ahead. With one hand on the handlebars and in a state of semi-inebriation, it was impossible to make the turn. The bike bounded over the grass verge and crashed into the dry stonewall, hurling John headlong into the slate. 

Initially he seemed to have survived with nothing more than a slight concussion. He had a splitting headache and could feel a warm stickiness as blood oozed from a cut on his temple. When John's eyes eventually focused on the garish redness of his soaked trousers, he swooned.  

He revived as the ambulance men loaded him on to the stretcher. 

"Too much elderberry wine, strikes me," said one of the ambulance men. 

The significance of that statement was lost on John. All he could think about as the ambulance door slammed shut was the sight of the black edged envelope fluttering along the grass verge.