The Heart of the Dales by Gervase Phinn Page A

from work, ’e does, and just as ’e sits dahn she’s at ’im. ‘Are yer gunna sit theer all neet? That winder wants fixin’ an’ cooal wants fetchin’ in an’ yer can peel t’taties if tha’s nowt better to do.’ She’s nobbut five foot two an’ as thin as a lat but, by the heck, she’s gor a gob on ’er. Two year into t’marriage and –’
    â€˜Harry,’ I said, attempting to get out of the car, ‘Christine and I have not had any barney, as you put it. We are very very happy and everything at home is fine. I’ve just had a bit of a bad day, that’s all.’
    â€˜Tell me abaat it,’ he said and then, without waiting, started to describe his own ‘dreadful’ day.
    Finally, I managed to extricate myself from the car and headed for the cottage, but Harry and his still yapping dog followed me up the path. ‘By the way, I’ve had a word with thy missis about yon garden,’ he called after me. ‘It needs sooarting out. I mean your missus can’t be expected to do all that diggin’ and prunin’ and plantin’ what wi’ a young bairn to tek care on, now can she, and it’s t’time o’ year when it wants fettlin’.’
    â€˜I’ll see to it,’ I told him shortly.
    â€˜Tha wants to,’ he told me, stubbornly pursuing his theme. ‘I was telling ’Ezekiah Longton last neet ovver a pint o’ mild at t’Royal Oak. His garden’s a picture, like summat out o’ one o’ these glossy ’orticultural magazines. Cooarse, it would be, what wi’ ’im bein’ Lord Marrick’s head gard’ner for nigh on fotty year. Any road, I were tellin’ ’im what a jungle your garden were and ’e says that tha can ’ave some on ’is ’ardy perennials if tha wants.’
    â€˜That’s very kind of him,’ I said.
    â€˜An’ that allotment of yourn needs a bit o’ work on it an’ all. It’s goin’ dahn t’nick, by looks on it. George Hemmings, on t’Allotment Committee, were only mentionin’ it to me last week in t’Oak. Now, if it was up to me –’
    â€˜I’ll see to it, Harry,’ I said wearily, my hand on the back door latch.
    â€˜An’ I’ll tell thee summat else an’ all,’ he persisted. ‘That new landlord at t’Oakis goin’ down like a dose o’ sheep flu. Tha wants to see what ’e’s gone an’ done to t’old place.’
    â€˜Goodnight, Harry,’ I said, going into the cottage and closing the door behind me.
    â€˜Goodnight,’ he called from the step. ‘Come on, Buster.’
    Christine was in the kitchen preparing supper. The cottage was as cheerful and welcoming as I knew it would be, and I could see that a lazy fire burned in the sitting room grate. It was good to be home.
    â€˜You’re late,’ said Christine as I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
    â€˜Yes,’ I sighed, burying my face in her neck.
    â€˜You don’t sound full of the joys of spring.’
    â€˜It’s autumn,’ I replied holding her close, ‘and I need a strong drinkand some TLC.’
    â€˜Hard day?’ Christine returned to the sink where she was peeling potatoes in a bowl.
    â€˜Dreadful!’ I said, bending over Richard’s carrycot. He looked washed and scrubbed and was gurgling away contentedly.
    â€˜Oh dear.’
    â€˜I don’t want to talk about it,’ I said.
    â€˜As bad as that, is it?’ she asked.
    â€˜As bad as that,’ I repeated.
    Of course I needed to talk about it so, as I sat at the kitchen table nursing a dark brown whisky, Christine had to endure a detailed account of my day. She was, as always, a sympathetic listener and full of good advice and by the time supper was ready, I felt slightly better.
    â€˜Would you take