'Fine,' I said. The idea of going to Arizona appealed, although I wasn't sure whether I would be up to prolonged exposure to Cash's geniality and Cathy's lectures.
'Whilst you are over there, you may as well stop off in New York. It's always worth finding out what's going on there.'
'I will. Thank you very much.'
I had been to New York before, but I had never visited any of the investment banks there. Their trading rooms were legendary, the centre of the world financial markets.
I went back to my desk, and opened the Tahiti documentation. I could use some help with this.
'Debbie?'
'Yes?'
'Are you feeling helpful?'
'No.'
'Would you do me an enormous favour?'
'No.'
'See what you think of this.' I tossed her the prospectus for the Tahiti. 'I'll do the numbers, but see what you think of the covenants.'
'Oh great, thanks,' she said, waving at the pile of prospectuses already surrounding her. 'I'll squeeze it into the half-hour between when I go to bed and when I get up.'
For all her complaining, I knew she would do a thorough job. And although she would never admit it, she approached the Tahiti documents with obvious enthusiasm.
'Oh, by the way,' she said, 'did you see the Gypsum of America stock price is up to thirteen dollars. Not bad, eh?'
'Not at all bad,' I smiled.
At least that little investment seemed to be going right.
CHAPTER 4
I was approaching home. The road became wilder as it made its way up the dale where I was born. Gently sloping banks grew into towering hillsides, a tartan of close-cropped grass, bracken and heather. It had rained earlier in the day, but the clouds had disbanded leaving a pale blue sky. The bright green of the grass and the bracken glistened in the sunlight; even the usually dour dry-stone walls shone like streaks of silver along the hillside. This drive up the dale never failed to invigorate me, no matter how long I had been cooped up in the car.
Eventually I came to a T-junction with a sign pointing straight up the hillside, announcing 'Barthwaite 3'. I turned up an impossibly steep road. In five minutes I topped the crest of a hill and looked down into the small valley in which the village of Barthwaite nestled. I drove down past the hard grey stone cottages, brightened up here and there by geraniums or lobelia sprouting from window boxes. I slowed down as I passed a narrow lane which led down to a large farm. The words 'Appletree Farm' were clearly painted on the white gate. It looked just as well kept as it had when I had lived there as a child. A new cattleshed, some modern machinery, but otherwise the same.
I drove on through the village, crossing the small river and up the hill on the other side. I stopped outside the last cottage, where village turned to moorland. I walked through the small front garden, brimming with hollyhocks, lavender, roses, gladioli and a host of colourful flowers whose names I did not know, and rapped the iron knocker of the front door, which was guarded by half a dozen tall foxgloves.
The small, bustling form of my mother was in the doorway in a moment.
'Come in, come in,' she said. 'Sit yourself down. Did you have a good journey? Can I get you a cup of tea? You must be tired.'
I was ushered in to the living room. 'Why don't you sit in Dad's chair,' she said, as she always did. 'It's nice and comfortable.' I sank into the old leather armchair and within a moment I was plied with scones and strawberry jam, both home-made. I commented on the garden and we spent a few minutes chatting about my mother's plans for it. Next came the village gossip, where I caught up on the latest scandalous activities of Mrs Kirby, Barthwaite's answer to Pamella Bordes. Then there was a long story about the problems my sister Linda was having getting the right covering for her settee, and the usual mild nagging that I hadn't dropped in to see her.
My mother didn't keep still for a moment during this conversation. She illustrated every point with elaborate hand movements and every minute or so got up to refill my cup, straighten up something in the room, or rush out to the kitchen to get some more cakes. Her face was slightly flushed as she talked rapidly on. She was a very energetic woman, throwing herself into everything that went on in the village. Everyone liked her. Despite her tendency to be a busybody, most of what she did or said was motivated by kindness or a genuine desire to help. And people still felt sorry for her. Seventeen years is not a long time in a Dales village.
The afternoon passed pleasantly. Then, after she had come back from the kitchen with some more tea, she said, 'I do wish your father would write. He has been in Australia a while now. You would have thought he could write. I'm sure he has found a lovely sheep farm. I saw one on telly last week which I am sure would do for us.'
'I am sure he will write soon. Let's go out and see the garden,' I said, trying to change the subject. But it was no use.
'It really is inconsiderate of him, you know. All I need is a quick letter. I know it's expensive to phone from that distance. Have you heard from him?'
'No, Mum, I'm afraid I haven't,' I said.
Nor was I likely to. My father hadn't gone to Australia. Or Argentina, or Canada, as my mother had suggested over the years. He had died.
It had happened when I was eleven, and although I hadn't actually seen it, what I had seen would always remain with me. Something had caught in the combine harvester on our farm, and he had tried to free it. But he had left the engine on. I was kicking a football against the wall on the other side of the barn. I had heard a shout over the noise of the engine, which cut off abruptly. I ran round the barn to find what was left of my father.
Eventually I had come to terms with the shock. My mother never did. She had been devoted to my father and could not accept his death. She had created another world for herself, one in which he was still alive, and one in which she could be comfortable.
My father was the tenant of one of the largest farms on an estate, and was respected by everyone in the village. This had made the lives of my mother, my older sister and me easier. Lord Mablethorpe, the owner of the estate, had spent a lot of time on my father's farm, discussing with him ever more efficient ways to get the maximum yield from it. They had become firm friends. When my father died, Lord Mablethorpe had given us a tied cottage to live in, promising it to my mother for as long as she lived. My father had taken out a generous life- insurance policy which gave us enough to live on, and the neighbours were all kind and helpful.
My father was a good man. I knew that because everyone always said so. I remembered him as a big, fierce man with a strong sense of right and wrong. I had always done my best to please him and I had usually succeeded. On the occasions when I failed to meet his expectations, there was all hell to pay. At the end of one term I had come home from school with a report criticising me for playing the fool in class. He had given me a lecture on the importance of learning at school. I was top of the class the next term.
His death, and the effect it had on my mother, seemed so unfair, unjust. I was stricken by my inability to do anything about it. It made me angry.
It was then that I had started running. I ran for miles over the hills, pushing myself to the limit that my small lungs could bear. I would battle my way through the cold wind and gloom of a Yorkshire winter, seeking some solace in the lonely struggle against the moors.
I also worked hard at school, determined to live up to what I imagined my father would have expected of me. I had struggled into Cambridge. Despite spending so much time on athletics, I had managed a respectable degree. By the time I started my Olympic campaign, determination and the desire to win had become a habit. It would be wrong to say that I had driven myself to an Olympic medal just for him. But I secretly hoped he had seen me
