wouldn’t last for ever either.
‘Sorry,’ he said as they got back in the car.
‘It’s all right,’ she said in a very adult way. ‘And, if you really want to know, I’m going to be a writer.’
Tom tried not to splutter. ‘A writer?’
Flora nodded. ‘Like Julia Golding.’
‘I see,’ Tom said, a little disappointed that she’d not said ‘I want to be a writer like my father’. She didn’t see him as a writer, did she? His stories didn’t count because they were nothing more than fact, and pretty fatuous fact at that. Most of the time he hated writing it, so he couldn’t really expect anyone to enjoy reading it, could he?
That was the whole point of this journey now. He was a man in search of a story – a decent story – a story worth writing and reading. A tale to stir the public imagination, and to waken them to the possibilities in life. But none of that was going to happen until he’d found the person he was after, and that wasn’t going to happen until he’d spoken to Marty Bailey.
Tom sighed and picked up his mobile phone.
‘Hello?’ the uncertain voice of the woman he’d spoken to before greeted him.
‘Hello,’ Tom echoed, ‘It’s Tom Mackenzie. I rang earlier to speak to Marty Bailey.’
There was a pause where Tom expected some sort of explanation as to why Marty Bailey hadn’t phoned him back.
‘Hello?’ Tom said again.
‘I’m sorry. He’s still not available.’
‘Oh,’ Tom said, tapping his foot on the floor of the car and thinking that time was money and he wasn’t earning any at the moment. ‘Maybe you could help me? Am I talking to Mrs Bailey?’
‘Yes,’ the lady said, her voice threaded through with suspicion.
‘So Molly Bailey is your sister-in-law?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK,’ Tom said. ‘Would it be possible to come round and have a chat?’
‘I don’t understand what this is all about.’
‘That’s why I think it would be best to have a chat. It would really help me out and wouldn’t take long,’ Tom said.
‘You’d be doing Molly a favour too,’ he lied, wincing slightly at his boldness. Still, it seemed to do the trick.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Penrith.’
‘And do you know where we are?’
‘No.’ Tom took a pen out of his shirt pocket and scribbled down the address as she dictated it quickly.
‘It’s about a ten-minute drive from Penrith,’ she explained.
‘Thanks,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
Tom found the place easily enough. He was getting used to the winding country lanes and huddles of stone cottages. It really was a beautiful county, he thought. He could just imagine himself in a little whitewashed cottage with extensiveviews over the sheep-scattered fells, bashing away at his laptop – Tom’s dream sequences invariably involved his own private laptop – before pulling on a pair of stout walking boots and heading, Wordsworth-like, to the nearest pub.
‘Am I allowed to come too?’ Flora said, pulling Tom out of his dream sequence.
‘Er,’ he hesitated. He wasn’t used to working with a kid alongside him. She might just put this Mrs Bailey off. ‘Best not, Flo. Not this time. This woman didn’t exactly seem friendly on the phone.’
‘OK,’ she said, not sounding unduly hurt.
‘You just—’ He was about to tell her to make a nosedive into a book but she already had. ‘I won’t be long.’
Tom got out of the car and opened the waist-high gate. Well, he tried to open it but it almost fell off its hinges. He looked up, half expecting someone to shout at him from one of the windows. Who did he think he was – breaking the gate like that? Nervously he tried again, managing to inch it open successfully.
Walking up the path, his boots scuffed on the uneven surface. Looking down, he noticed that the path didn’t really have a surface; it was more like an unmade road. He grimaced, and then his eyes caught something: a huge hanging basket full of flowers. Tom didn’t normally
‘Sorry,’ he said as they got back in the car.
‘It’s all right,’ she said in a very adult way. ‘And, if you really want to know, I’m going to be a writer.’
Tom tried not to splutter. ‘A writer?’
Flora nodded. ‘Like Julia Golding.’
‘I see,’ Tom said, a little disappointed that she’d not said ‘I want to be a writer like my father’. She didn’t see him as a writer, did she? His stories didn’t count because they were nothing more than fact, and pretty fatuous fact at that. Most of the time he hated writing it, so he couldn’t really expect anyone to enjoy reading it, could he?
That was the whole point of this journey now. He was a man in search of a story – a decent story – a story worth writing and reading. A tale to stir the public imagination, and to waken them to the possibilities in life. But none of that was going to happen until he’d found the person he was after, and that wasn’t going to happen until he’d spoken to Marty Bailey.
Tom sighed and picked up his mobile phone.
‘Hello?’ the uncertain voice of the woman he’d spoken to before greeted him.
‘Hello,’ Tom echoed, ‘It’s Tom Mackenzie. I rang earlier to speak to Marty Bailey.’
There was a pause where Tom expected some sort of explanation as to why Marty Bailey hadn’t phoned him back.
‘Hello?’ Tom said again.
‘I’m sorry. He’s still not available.’
‘Oh,’ Tom said, tapping his foot on the floor of the car and thinking that time was money and he wasn’t earning any at the moment. ‘Maybe you could help me? Am I talking to Mrs Bailey?’
‘Yes,’ the lady said, her voice threaded through with suspicion.
‘So Molly Bailey is your sister-in-law?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK,’ Tom said. ‘Would it be possible to come round and have a chat?’
‘I don’t understand what this is all about.’
‘That’s why I think it would be best to have a chat. It would really help me out and wouldn’t take long,’ Tom said.
‘You’d be doing Molly a favour too,’ he lied, wincing slightly at his boldness. Still, it seemed to do the trick.
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘Penrith.’
‘And do you know where we are?’
‘No.’ Tom took a pen out of his shirt pocket and scribbled down the address as she dictated it quickly.
‘It’s about a ten-minute drive from Penrith,’ she explained.
‘Thanks,’ Tom said. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
Tom found the place easily enough. He was getting used to the winding country lanes and huddles of stone cottages. It really was a beautiful county, he thought. He could just imagine himself in a little whitewashed cottage with extensiveviews over the sheep-scattered fells, bashing away at his laptop – Tom’s dream sequences invariably involved his own private laptop – before pulling on a pair of stout walking boots and heading, Wordsworth-like, to the nearest pub.
‘Am I allowed to come too?’ Flora said, pulling Tom out of his dream sequence.
‘Er,’ he hesitated. He wasn’t used to working with a kid alongside him. She might just put this Mrs Bailey off. ‘Best not, Flo. Not this time. This woman didn’t exactly seem friendly on the phone.’
‘OK,’ she said, not sounding unduly hurt.
‘You just—’ He was about to tell her to make a nosedive into a book but she already had. ‘I won’t be long.’
Tom got out of the car and opened the waist-high gate. Well, he tried to open it but it almost fell off its hinges. He looked up, half expecting someone to shout at him from one of the windows. Who did he think he was – breaking the gate like that? Nervously he tried again, managing to inch it open successfully.
Walking up the path, his boots scuffed on the uneven surface. Looking down, he noticed that the path didn’t really have a surface; it was more like an unmade road. He grimaced, and then his eyes caught something: a huge hanging basket full of flowers. Tom didn’t normally
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