Ring of Change Read online

  Past Glories

  T M Goble

  Past Glories

  Copyright 2020 – The Creative Peak(TCP)

  First paperback edition printed in 2020 in the United Kingdom

  The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN

  Paperback 978-1-910236-99-4

  Kindle 978-1-910236-98-7

  No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information retrieval system without written permission of the publisher. All rights are reserved by the publisher.

  Published by The Creative Peak(TCP)

  Book Design: T M Goble

  Cover Image: Copyright Shutterstock

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  containing

  Information about future publications

  (there are many to come across different genres)

  Deriving plots and characters

  Choosing Locations

  Researching books (both fiction and non fiction)

  Recipes (cookery books - coming soon)

  Full details at the end of the book

  Contents

  01

  02

  03

  04

  05

  06

  07

  08

  09

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  83

  84

  85

  86

  87

  88

  89

  90

  91

  92

  93

  94

  95

  96

  97

  98

  99

  100

  101

  102

  103

  104

  105

  106

  107

  108

  109

  110

  01

  The last piece of Black Forest gateau grabbed my concentration. A dark cherry, peeking from the moist chocolate filling, made my mouth water. The slice lay among the scattered crumbs on the blue weave patterned plate.

  With a sigh of determination, I straightened my back and clenched my jaw to resist the temptation of the spoon. This is ridiculous, I’m a grown woman, of course, I’ll resist!

  My head ached, my stomach churned, and saliva filled my mouth with longing, as I imagined the rich, gorgeous taste. Focusing on the cherry, I blinked away the tears while my hand edged closer to its destination.

  Huddling at the kitchen table, the howling November wind battered the old farmhouse windows and doors which rattled through the empty house. The draught of the icy wind whipped across the stone-flagged floor and nipped at my toes.

  Half of the designer kitchen had been fitted to perfection. The bright red drawers and cupboard fronts flooded the kitchen with a reflected bloody crimson light. Halogen down lights glinted on the stainless-steel trims which edged the mottled grey marble worktops.

  The remaining unfinished walls, floor and windows had made the eccentric Victorian farmer proud, but time had pitted, dirtied and dulled them to a dirty brown. The juxtaposition of the old and new, created a stark contrast and illustrated an apt reflection of my life.

  Blinking, I tried to stem the tears leaking from my eyes, but they dribbled across my cheeks and dripped from the end of my chin. Breathing in tight angry gasps, I yearned that one day the chaos would vanish.

  Shivering in the cold farmhouse, I longed for the central heating of the London apartment which had been home. Tightening my fleece, I hoped for deliverance from this icy nightmare.

  The memories of the heady days of my early twenties produced a small smile which tweaked at my lips through the tears. For fifteen glorious years I’d whirled around London with success that had been the envy of my friends. I’d become the top fashion designer in London and the world’s best at accessories.

  The ecstatic life of London had improved beyond my wildest dreams, when I fell in love with the dashing and handsome Justin. Arriving from Harvard he had the pick of the plum well-paid jobs in the City of London. How different my planned life had turned out. World class accomplishments littered my past. My present is shivering and crying alone in this deserted farmhouse.

  The day at Royal Ascot races when I fell in love is imprinted on my memory. Wearing a large multicoloured hat, one of my own designs, I had concentrated my attention on a photographer who had focused his camera in my direction. Would a picture of me and my designer hat be on the front pages of a daily newspaper? Flashing a broad smile and striking an elegant pose, my eyes sparkled as an irrepressible giggle escaped my lips. Posing for multiple shots, I collided with Justin, who emerged from the swirling crowds around me.

  In a flurry of apologies our eyes met. A whirlwind romance, and then a glittering marriage. Long-term success followed. Serious money lined the route to the top as we join the famed list of celebrity couples. Everyone wanted our friendship, so invitations poured in. I’d only made one mistake along the way in my successful career. Hopefully, it has been forgotten, as Caroline would have moved on to bigger and better successes.

  02

  Tears ran down my cheeks and I whimpered from the cold touch as my fingers caressed the spoon. What should I do? Little money and immense hassle summed up the future, but its clarity had vanished, and a veil of misty grey tulle had replaced it. The enforced isolation away from the teeming life of the glistening city had drained my ebullient confidence. r />
  Chocolate cake provided solace and distraction as my life spiralled downwards. Substantial supplies would be needed as my existence had hit rock bottom. Tugging at the waistband of my skirt, I ignored the tightness, flicked the curls from my face, and gripped the spoon. The temptation of the gooey slice had become overpowering. The spoon hovered in anticipation.

  Battering gusts and swirling drizzle hit the ageing farmhouse. The panes rattled and I quivered. The old farm, Cloughside, had been neglected. Only a mile from the isolated village of Mossmoor, but a lifetime from the glitz of London.

  The horrendous short journey to the village increased my sense of isolation. The half-mile of rutted and muddy farm track reached a small potholed winding lane, which dipped through a ravine with a stream crossing the road. It then veered up and over the hill to reach the village. No pavements or streetlights graced my journey, when driven by necessity to venture across the hostile landscape for provisions.

  With a cold shudder, the image of the wild scenery of the windswept moors, dominated by straggling hills, filled my mind. Not a skyscraper in sight, only dark craggy rocks on the distant horizon. Few outsiders ventured to Mossmoor.

  In its glory days, packhorse trails merged in the village centre, giving a bustling life to the many pubs. The plethora of them had dwindled to one, which struggled to gain an income. Built of local limestone, The Jaggers, now weathered after centuries of battering from the elements, appeared forlorn and forgotten. Even its sign, depicting the name and a picture of a packhorse laden down with heavy panniers, had faded. The historic market centre for the vast expanses of moorland areas, with their isolated farms and small hamlets, had one general store. Modern-day residents, mostly supermarket shoppers, had to endure a twelve-mile journey to Braxton.

  03

  Why had my life hit a downward spiral? Should I accept the blame? Had I changed? No. I’d been delighted with family life in London, with friends and a social life to be envied. The change in Justin’s character had created the descent into the nightmare.

  But why had my husband changed? The bright lights and social whirl no longer satisfied him. If only he’d stayed the same as the day we’d married.

  A promotion to the Head of the Environment Division at Twitchard Management Consultants should have been another step up his ascending career ladder, but the new role created changes in his personality and outlook.

  With a strange eagerness he studied ‘eco’ labels, swapped his car to an electric hybrid and became determined to save the planet. Quoting statistics to anybody who would listen, about pollution, the ozone layer and alternative energy resources, he became obsessive. Light-hearted dinner party conversation eluded him, and invitations dwindled to non-existent.

  The new approach never appealed to me, but our two teenage children embraced his ideas. Three against one, assigned me no chance of winning, and they discounted my views as naïve and outdated. For me, the hammer blow landed when Justin’s company announced staff could work from home.

  The idea of moving from London to a small holding obsessed him. As the ‘eco’ bug increased, he developed delusions of rural harmony and self-sufficiency. Perhaps he viewed the future through rose-tinted glasses where the sun always shone. Storms, howling gales and mud had no place in his dream of living in the countryside. The children embraced his every suggestion. Justin became determined to run a full-size organic farm.

  Why did he think he could move from the city to become a farmer, with no experience or background in agriculture? Although I objected long and hard, he bought this farm in the northern counties of England. It became an impossibility to drop into London to meet friends. Surrounded by crumbling roads and a hostile environment, the distance and isolation, presented a frightening contrast to my former life. Why hadn’t he chosen a pretty, sheltered valley in the southern counties?

  Outside the rain splattered window, the grey marbled sky loomed with menace. With a long sigh I rubbed a hand across my tear-stained face, straightened my shoulders and resolved that tomorrow I would be positive.

  With relish, I focused my attention back to that last slice of gateau. I licked my lips in anticipation. With a large intake of breath and a small smile of eagerness, I raised a spoonful of cake towards my awaiting lips.

  04

  Before I had a chance to taste the exquisite gateau, a dreadful sound filled the air, drowning out the howling gale raging outside. Banging and braying emanated from the farmyard.

  The farmhouse door shuddered and rattled from the kicking but remained closed. How long would it withstand the onslaught? The beast outside showed no signs of relenting, and the noise continued unabated. With an authoritative edge to my voice, ‘Go away, Angela!’ The kicking stopped. A sigh of relief escaped as I returned my attention to the cake.

  My mother-in-law, who had no sense of humour, had not discovered the donkey had been named after her. Throughout the years, since my marriage to Justin, I had never been sure of our fragile relationship. Justin’s successes were her only interest as he sprang from one promotion to the next. Despite my best endeavours, she only tolerated me, and didn’t acknowledge my success in the fashion world. But then fashion didn’t interest her.

  Old before her time she embraced a dowdy and dated appearance, in pale twin sets, fake pearls and a sensible tweed skirt. My flamboyant, floaty and frivolous dress style was eyed with a moue of distaste. The scruffy stained farm clothes I wore today were a stark reminder that my life had changed. No frivolity or flamboyance existed in the grey bleak world which I now inhabited.

  She lived in North London, but Justin had assured her, that he would visit and stay with her when he was in town on business. But somehow, she didn’t seem bothered about seeing me.

  Before I took a mouthful of the scrumptious cake, the banging and scuffling noise started again. ‘No, Angela! How many times do I have to say no!’ My high-pitched yelling and screaming heightened the noise outside. Would the door resist the battering from the huge grey beast? How did a donkey know I would give in and throw her inappropriate food?

  A reward would stop her attack. A donkey in the kitchen would be the last straw, and the imagined scenario filled me with horror. I dropped the spoon back onto the plate with a clatter and admitted defeat. With my lips pressed in a firm line, I approached the large square oak door which needed both hands to open, as the wood had swelled in the damp conditions.

  As soon as the gap appeared the donkey’s head sprung in. Angela had the upper hand as I hadn’t engaged brain and thought through my actions. ‘Get out, Angela!’ I screamed, as I pushed the large grey head. As she retreated, I sensed victory, but I hadn’t won yet. Then another mistake leapt to the fore as my woollen socks slid on the flagstone floor. Dealing with Angela without wellies became impossible.

  Picturing myself sloshing through the farmyard mud in woollen socks sent a shiver through me. I needed a different approach to subdue the donkey. Battling to push Angela’s head back into the yard while putting on my wellies became an uneven contest. A one-handed push didn’t succeed with such a strong animal. As I wobbled around on one leg attempting to pull on a Wellington boot, the wind and rain howled through the open door.

  If I didn’t take command, she would be in the kitchen, as with each wobble she edged through the doorway. Angela wanted cake, so in desperation I reached back to the table, grabbed a handful of chocolate goo and rubbed it across her mouth. She curled her top lip and exposed her teeth as though laughing at me. The large animal terrified the life out of me. Fear clogged my throat and my hands shook.

  Holding my breath, I smeared more cake onto the curled lips then threw the rest of the handful into the yard. The donkey had won again and backed up to eat today’s treat.

  With chocolate daubed down the front of my scruffy drab brown fleece jacket, I leaned against the doorframe in one welly boot and a muddy sock. The rain and wind lashed across my fa
ce and my wet hair sent cold dribbles down my neck. I shivered. Tears once again filled my eyes. Their presence dominated my life and were ready to cascade across my face at any opportunity.

  Angela enjoyed her cake and strutted around the yard searching for more, licking up crumbs as she moved. The farmyard enclosed on three sides by the house and barns had become a mess. Mud intermixed with straw covered the rough cobbles. The cows sought shelter here and the resulting smell became overpowering, but I had no idea how to remove the stench. I would never enjoy rural aromas! The pervading odour permeated my clothes, made my hair smell and attached to me when shopping in the village.

  05

  A tall man in his late forties, wearing smart trousers, a check shirt and tweed jacket, strode into the farmyard, and a frisson of alarm made me grip the doorframe. Who is he? Why had he come to the farm?

  ‘What is the reason for this noise? Why is the donkey braying? And what’s it eating?’

  Handsome men received the best side of me, but not today. ‘Who the hell do you think you’re shouting at?’ I snarled with my hands on my hips.

  Approaching the donkey, he pulled her head up, ‘That’s chocolate cake!’ Raising his arm, he pointed his finger at me. ‘What a stupid woman!’ He grabbed the donkey’s collar and tugged it away from the last crumbs of the cake. ‘This yard is a disgrace. It’s dangerous and hazardous for the animals. Get it cleaned up!’ He held Angela’s collar, so the animal couldn’t move her head, making the remains of the cake out of reach.

  ‘Leave my Angela alone!’ Forgetting I only had one welly on, I stepped towards the man. ‘Don’t come to my farm and issue orders! I’ll give her what I like.’ I picked up a piece of chocolate cake from the cobbles, placed it in the palm of my hand, then reached towards the donkey.

  ‘You will not!’ Knocking the cake from my hand he stamped it into the mud as he glared with narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. His face turned red. Alone with this irate man on an isolated farm caused a shiver of apprehension to slide down my spine. Although my mouth opened, no words emerged.

  Fear clogged my throat and I whimpered, covering my face with my hands to block out the sight of the furious man. Not a sensible move as my hands had been covered in chocolate cake. Did I now look as though I’d been indulging in tribal face painting?