Date: Thu, 19 Feb 2004 12:08:07 -0000
From: Drew Hunt <drew.hunt@blueyonder.co.uk>
Subject: The House On The Hill 1

Warning.  You are in an archive of gay themed literature, so it shouldn't
come as a shock to you to learn that the following story has a gay theme.

You should leave if any of the following apply.

You don't like reading about gay people hoping to create happy meaningful
and loving relationships with one another.

You are below the age of consent in your community to be reading this type
of thing.

Your local laws prohibit you from reading material of a homoerotic nature.

Lastly if you've opened up this file in search of something to get you off
quickly, then maybe you should think about trying something else.  The
story is slow-paced and character-driven.

This story was written by me; I don't want you copying it or displaying or
archiving it on any other website or newsgroup without my prior written
permission.  This story has been submitted to the Nifty Archives under the
terms of its submission agreement.

It's fiction folks; it's all made up, not real.  No one in the story exists
in real life.

Should you be so minded to chuck the odd appreciative comment the author's
way, kindly drop me a note at drew.hunt@blueyonder.co.uk

The House On The Hill

Chapter 1

Robbie Foster, Rob to his friends, but never anything but Robert to his
family, drove his middle-of-the-range BMW into the outskirts of his
childhood hometown of Greenville.  Robbie was returning home from his life
in London for the second, and more permanent time following the death of
his father.  His destination was the large imposing edifice which he could
occasionally spot above the rooftops of the town; the house in which he
grew up stood in splendid isolation at the top of Barrow's Rise, the
highest point in the area.

Robbie, now thirty-two years old, remembered making this same journey just
after finishing his mathematics degree at Oxford University. He recalled
his youthful disdain for his childhood hometown, thinking it far too closed
in for his liking.  Robbie felt that he was going places; he had big plans,
plans that didn't include sticking around the depressing South Lancashire
backwater.

After finishing his degree, Robbie had soon found himself in gainful
employment in London, working for an emerging company who specialised in
educational software.  Robbie very quickly began to make a name for
himself; he'd joined the company just before the home computer industry
blossomed, and when the time was right he and his colleagues in the company
were able to undertake a successful management buyout.

Robbie had realised from an early age that he was different from the boys
around him.  In the school changing rooms he was most interested in what
the other boys had hidden behind their Y-fronts or tight white briefs.  He
knew that his feelings would get him into an awful lot of hot water with
his fellow pupils if they were ever to discover his secret.  As Robbie
wasn't much of an athlete, he was able to wheedle his way out of a few of
the organised sporting activities, for which St Winifred's was renowned.

Robbie had never felt brave enough to come out to his parents.  Whilst he
didn't expect them to be angry or quote misinterpreted passages from the
Bible at him, he knew that they'd be disappointed.  Robbie's sister
Beatrice would have to be their only source of grandchildren, but she was a
rather plain girl and she hadn't managed to find true love, not that she
was looking all that hard anyway.  Beatrice was more interested in the
horses that she looked after in the riding stables, which she ran for a
crotchety old dame who like Bea had never married.  "Still, at least she's
happy." He concluded.

Robbie was travelling during the rush hour, so his progress along
Greenville's main street was slow.  Although Robbie never had the courage
to come out at home, once he left for Oxford, he'd felt less constrained.
He'd had a number of short-lived romps with his fellow students, but
nothing long term ever developed.  During his few months back in the loving
bosom of his family following the end of his degree studies, he'd also
returned to his life of sexual abstinence.  He wasn't overly bothered if
the truth were known.  He'd not found the endless short-term passion-laden
trysts at university all that satisfying.  He was at heart a romantic,
although unlike his sister, Robbie thought himself not entirely
unattractive.  Though these feelings had only come about in recent years;
he had to conclude that he was a late bloomer.  Robbie was no matinee idol,
but people thought his smouldering green eyes set in his open warm face
were his best feature.  His curly dark brown hair wasn't a turn-off either.
Alas, Robbie had to conclude that he didn't have much of a muscular build
though.  He stood an even six feet tall, but much to his shame he was a
little thin and puny.

Turning the car right at the traffic lights, Robbie entered the warren of
smaller streets that fed off the High street.  He'd mistimed his journey
back home; he'd have been better waiting another hour before travelling up
from London.  Robbie began to reflect on the events that had brought him
home for what could be an extended stay.  His father Frank had been a
workaholic.  He was the sole owner of Foster's glass works, one of the
major employers in the town.  His doctor Larry Finch had told him time and
time again to take things easy.  "Delegate or die," the doctor eventually
told Frank after his first heart attack.  Frank had also been told in no
uncertain terms to stop smoking, cut down on the booze and improve his
diet.  However Frank knew, or thought he knew, better.  He'd joined a gym
to try and exercise more, but he refused to make any other lifestyle
changes.  The second and more serious heart attack hit Frank whilst he was
on the treadmill at the gym.  Frank had complained loudly to Larry that he
knew exercise would be injurious to his health.  Larry had thrown up his
hands in exasperation, and it was only Gloria, Frank's long suffering
wife's attempts to pour oil on troubled waters that had saved Larry from
throwing in the towel.

Larry and Gloria had finally persuaded Frank to take things easy.  They
made him stick to a strict diet, even Mrs Grimes, their cook who was a
no-nonsense meat-and-two-veg woman had been cajoled into preparing low fat
and low salt meals for the Foster family.  This time Frank had taken heed
of Larry's advice about delegating most of his work responsibilities to
Bill Simmons, the factory manager.  All was going well, despite Frank's
frequent and loud complaints about being bored out of his brain by the
enforced changes in his lifestyle.  However when the factory began to lose
orders due to increased overseas competition, Frank insisted on taking the
tiller once again.

Despite everyone's warnings, Frank put in long hours at the factory, he
attended frequent meetings wining and dining potential clients, and spent a
good deal of his time on the road trying to drum up new business.  Although
the news hit the Foster family hard, they weren't surprised when Frank
suffered his third and fatal heart attack whilst on the golf course.
Though Robbie secretly smiled because his dad's demise had occurred after
the much-valued signature on a fairly lucrative contract had been obtained.

Robbie had gone home immediately after hearing the news of his father's
death, he'd helped his mother with the funeral arrangements, and he'd
started on the long job of sorting out the family's finances.  Though
Robbie soon had to return to his work in London, to try and arrange for a
longer leave of absence.  During his first visit back up north Robbie had
realised that the cut-and-thrust rat race of London life wasn't really for
him.  He was secretly a little scared that his own heavy work schedule
could ultimately have the same effects on his health as had happened to his
dad.  'After all, heart attacks run in families.'  He'd told himself.  He
also realised that his initial assessment of life in Greenville had been
too harsh.  Therefore once Robbie had sorted out his affairs in London, he
packed up his personal belongings, allowed his small flat in Mayfair to be
sub-let, and he made his way northwards.

Robbie's car climbed up the hill, and his final destination stood in all
its brown stone and ivy clad glory in front of him.  Robbie's ancestor
Jeremiah Foster wanted his position in the town to be made plain to all.
Jeremiah had owned the town's first cotton mill not long after the start of
the industrial revolution, and he wanted his family's wealth and position
on full display.  Therefore he'd had a large family mansion built on the
top of the highest hill overlooking the town.  With the decline in the
cotton industry, the family moved into mass production of glassware
instead.

Robbie's father Frank had rather liked the old house, but his wife Gloria,
who hated it at first sight and never changed her opinion, moved out into a
bungalow at the other end of town as soon as the funeral was over.  The
large edifice would now be solely occupied by Robbie, who had an affection
for the old pile.  Though Mrs Grimes, the family's cook and one remaining
full time member of staff, also lived next to the house; she had her own
self-contained rooms attached to the main building.

Robbie drove the car onto the wide gravelled driveway and alighted from the
vehicle.  He spent a couple of moments stretching out the kinks in his
legs.  Mrs Grimes, who had been a part of the Foster family since before
Robbie was born, opened the main front door and waddled her way down the
few steps to greet him.

"Mr Robert, it's lovely to see you again."

"Mrs G, I've only been away in London for two weeks."  Robbie held the old
dear, a lady for whom he had a great deal of affection, at arms length and
looked into the now wrinkled, well-worn but very loving face of his boyhood
confidant.

Robbie still remembered the evening of his fourteenth birthday; Mrs Grimes
had taken her Robert aside and asked him if he were homosexual.  She'd seen
how Robbie had looked adoringly at one of the guests, Carl Powers, at
Robbie's birthday party, which had been held in the large and impressive
dining room.  At seeing the longing in Master Robert's face, Mrs G had put
two and two together.  Robbie who knew he could trust this most faithful
old family retainer had wept into her ample bosom that night and confessed
all.  He told her of his pain at wanting to be loved by another boy, and at
how frightened and unhappy he was.  Mrs G had dug around in her capacious
apron pocket and pulled out a well-starched large square of Irish linen and
mopped up his tears.  "It's alright master Robert, Mrs G understands and
she still loves you."

Since that day Robbie and Mrs G, her first name was Sarah, but no one ever
used it, were firm friends, a bond which had not wavered despite Robbie's
infrequent visits home.  He'd tried to get the old dear to email him with
news of home, but Mrs G would have nothing to do with "Those new-fangled
typewriters."  So they kept up a steady stream of letters, Robbie hadn't
been aware that Mrs G had kept every one of them.

"Now the kettle's just come to the boil, so we can have a nice cup of tea
in the kitchen and you can tell me all your news."  Mrs G said smiling up
at the boy who was the nearest thing she'd ever get to her own son.  Sarah
Grimes was actually a spinster, she never married, but she'd insisted on
the title of Mrs; this was a practice which had virtually died out before
the Second World War, when the cook of a household was entitled to call
herself Misses.

"I've got all that to unpack."  Robbie said pointing at the heavily laden
car.

"It'll still be there when we've had our tea, Mr Robert."  She said leading
him into the house.  "You've not been looking after yourself properly, you
need feeding up."  She told him disapprovingly.

Robbie had tried in vain to get Mrs G to call him Rob or Robbie, but she
was hopelessly old-fashioned and confessed to being too uncomfortable with
the more relaxed form of address.  Mrs G was a conservative, with both a
small and a large C.  She never quite forgave Robbie when he told her once
that he actually voted Labour (The left of centre party in British
politics).

After their tea, which of course was accompanied by no less than two
homemade scones, complete with jam and cream, Robbie was finally released
to go and unpack the car.  Though not before he'd been informed that dinner
would be ready in a couple of hours.  He'd at least managed to persuade the
old dear not to serve it in the formal dining room.  They agreed to eat the
meal at the kitchen table together.

As he arranged his belongings in his bedroom, Robbie began to get that old
sense of comfort once again at being surrounded by all the familiar
trappings of his youth.  His posters of Spiderman, and all the other comic
book superheroes, had thankfully long since been removed, but he still had
his collection of World War II model aeroplanes, he remembered sitting in
the kitchen with his father for hours gluing the various bits of the models
together.  Robbie remembered those times with great fondness; his father
always put aside time for his children, and Robbie had always looked
forward to those occasions when he and his dad would chat about
inconsequential things.  Robbie did grow a little uncomfortable when in
later years the conversation would turn to Robbie finding a girlfriend.
He'd usually manage to get the subject changed quite quickly though by
asking his dad a question about the goings on in the factory.  He wasn't
all that interested, he had little intention of following in his father's
footsteps, but at least it got his dad's mind off Robbie's seeming lack of
interest in the opposite sex.

Robbie continued to pack away his things; he thought that he'd treat
himself to a swim once he'd completed his task.  Frank had had a
twenty-five metre indoor pool built onto the house.  It had caused a few
eyebrows to be raised in the town once news had leaked out of the hitherto
unheard of luxury of having ones own indoor heated swimming pool.  Of
course the gossip had pleased Frank immensely; he'd intended the town to
know of what was going to be put into the house.  He was trying to keep up
the family tradition of stamping the family's position on the town.  A
practice which the socialist-minded Robbie despised.  Robbie wasn't sure
why Frank had installed the pool anyway, because Frank couldn't swim,
though Robbie had to concede that the pool was a great feature of the
house.

* * * * *

Downstairs in the kitchen, a strange mixture of modern electronics with
old-fashioned stained pine countertops, Mrs Grimes was happier than she'd
been in years.  She'd feared that once Mister Frank had passed away, the
house would be sold off and converted into flats.  She knew that Mrs Gloria
hated the house and wouldn't continue to live there after her husband's
death.  When she learned that Mister Robert was going to move in for a
while she knew that he actually liked the old place quite a bit, and she
was hoping that he would move in permanently.  She'd seen his tiny flat in
London; she didn't know how he managed to live in such a small space.  No,
she'd do everything she could to try and persuade him to stay.  To this end
she began the seduction by making him his favourite dinner of cream of
chicken soup, with home-made bread rolls, followed by her speciality, Steak
and Kidney pudding, steamed green vegetables and new potatoes.  There was a
sherry trifle in the refrigerator too if he had room.

Mrs Grimes hummed 'Everything's Coming Up Roses' tunelessly to herself, all
was happy in her little world.

"I'm going to go for a swim before dinner."  Robbie called out from the
kitchen door.

"Oh you can't, Mister Robert," She said looking up from tending the large
pan containing the steaming pudding.  "Your mother had the thing drained
just before she moved out.  It really needs a good clean, and the pump or
filter or whatever doesn't work right anyway."

"Bugger!"  Robbie said in frustration.

"Language, Mister Robert."  Mrs G scolded.

Robbie advanced into the room, holding out his arms.  "Sorry Mrs G."  He
hugged his old friend to him.  She only came up to his shoulder.  "Look, if
I'm going to live here permanently, this place will have to be spruced up.
The woodwork in the hallway is looking particularly shabby."

"You're thinking of coming to live here for good?"  Mrs G asked hopefully.

"You know how much I've always loved this old pile.  Okay it's outdated and
it was originally designed to show off the family's position in the town,
but it's calling to me, Mrs G, I want to come and make my life here."

Mrs G's face broke out into a huge smile; what she'd hoped for, what she'd
prayed for had come to pass.  "Oh Mister Robert, that's wonderful, I
thought I'd be pensioned off and stuck in a bungalow somewhere and
forgotten about.  You don't know how happy you've made this old lady."

"Oh Mrs G, I'd never pension you off, you must know that, love."  Robbie
thought he might try again to get the old dear to unbend and bring her into
the late 20th century.

"Look, as I said this place needs a good clear-out.  I love the building,
but some of the furniture belongs in a museum.  I certainly don't want to
make the place look ridiculously modern, but I think at least we could
bring it out of the dark ages.  Look, along with this new start, please,
please Mrs G, will you let me call you by your Christian name?"

Mrs G hesitated.  "It don't seem right, Mister Robert.  You're the man of
the house now."

"Mrs G, Sarah."  Robbie said taking both her work-worn hands in his own
long thin and perfectly manicured ones.  "Please Sarah, I'm the man of the
house as you say, and I don't like all this silly Victorian stuffiness.  I
know you like to keep up appearances and everything, why don't you let me
call you Sarah, and please, please call me Rob or Robbie. I hate Robert, it
reminds me too much of Granddad."

"I'll try, Robbie."  The name sounded strange and a bit too modern to
Sarah's ears, but she'd try.  "But I might slip up a few times."

"I understand, Sarah."  He then gave her a kiss on her cheek, something he
hadn't done since he was a little boy.  Sarah thought the gesture was
wonderful; "Oh Mister Rob...erm, sorry Robbie, thank you my dear, you're
making this old lady very happy."

Robbie gave her another squeeze, and then he settled himself down on one of
the kitchen chairs to watch the old woman work.  He knew better than to
offer his assistance.  That would be going much too far for Sarah's
comfort.  "I'll look in the Yellow Pages and see if I can't get someone to
come out and have a look at the pool.  I like a good swim; it helps keep me
in shape.  We might even get you to do a few laps, Sarah."

"We will do no such thing!  My swimming days are long since over."

"Oh Mrs G, erm sorry, Sarah," Robbie said chuckling. "You're right, these
new names are taking some getting used to.  It wouldn't do you any harm to
take some exercise you know."

"I have my usual walk down into the town every day if the weather's
anything like, that'll do me."

Sarah was several stones overweight, she tried to pass it off as being 'big
boned', but she realised that this was a fiction, but at her age
sixty-four, she didn't think there was much point in trying to lose weight.
And she absolutely hated the healthy meals that she had cooked for Mister
Frank over the past few months, 'And they didn't do him any good anyway.'
She sniffed.

"What type of plans have you got for yourself now, Robbie?"  She still
found the new form of address uncomfortable.

"Well, I'm not interested in the glassworks at all, and all I know is
computers, so maybe I'll set up shop doing my thing here."  He saw little
point in going into detail about what he did for a living, as Sarah
wouldn't be able to understand.

"It'll take a pretty penny to bring this place up to its former glory."
She said remembering the tales of what life used to be like in the days of
splendour and extravagance.  The stories of nine-course dinner parties,
with the guests dressed up in fine clothes, had been passed down to a
wide-eyed young Sarah from her mother and grandmother who had been in
service at 'The Big House' as the locals called it.

"Yes I know."  Robbie said.  "Look, Sarah I devised a few good software
programmes down in London, and I made quite a bit of money on them, so I
shouldn't have any difficulty in paying for the house to be redone."

"Oh right."  Sarah didn't understand what he got up to in London, but she
knew it sounded important.  She resumed her meal preparations continuing to
hum tunelessly.

* * * * *

After the meal was eaten, Sarah was dismayed to see Robbie not finish
everything, though Robbie had told her that she'd piled too much onto his
plate, a fact that she had to concede.  Robbie offered to help with the
washing up, but not unsurprisingly Sarah had refused.

"That dishwasher Mister Frank put in a few years ago makes it easy to clean
up anyway.  Though Robbie remembered the battle his mother had had with
Sarah to get the latter to use the machine in the first place.  Though
Sarah soon realised it was a big help to her.

Robbie decided to leave Sarah to it, and he made his way along the
oak-panelled hallway into the library.  This room contained most of the
great works of English literature in leather bound volumes.  His father
hadn't ever read a single one of the books, but Robbie liked to curl up in
a corner of an evening and lose himself in a book.  Running his finger
along the dusty shelves, Robbie decided he'd have to speak to Sarah about
hiring more staff.  He picked out a volume of poems by William Blake, and
settled into one of the deep filled wing-backed leather armchairs to read.
Though his mind soon wandered back to a time over ten years earlier.

* * * * *

Robbie had met Patrick in, of all places, an STD clinic in London.  Whilst
neither man would claim that it was love at first sight, the two knew
they'd got a strong connection, as they seemed to click pretty quickly.
Robbie was there to have an HIV test done; he'd just had a roll in the hay
with a hardware rep who had come into his office searching for a sale.
Robbie, who normally didn't go in for picking men up and sleeping with
them, was feeling particularly low, his work back then wasn't going all
that well, and the thought of spending the night in bed with the red-headed
stud appealed to him.  It was well known in computer circles that Max
Smithson was gay, so Robbie decided to invite the man out for a drink, and
hopefully other things would develop, too.

Robbie's usual caution about not having unprotected sex was impaired by the
large amount of alcohol he'd consumed, and he foolishly agreed to be fucked
by Max without the latter using a condom.  This was why Robbie was at the
STD clinic.  Back in 1990, before the age of retro viral drugs, the HIV
virus, if contracted, was a most serious condition.

Robbie believed that he could just walk in, have a sample of his blood
taken, and walk out again with the result of the test known.  Patrick,
Robbie's counsellor, soon disabused him of that notion.

Patrick was a man in his early thirties; when he smiled, his whole face
seemed to join in on the act, showing the world a perfect set of white
teeth.  The smile did indescribably wonderful things to Robbie's insides.
However, as Patrick was his counsellor, Robbie didn't feel comfortable
about chatting him up and asking him out on a date, so he held in his
feelings.

Patrick advised Robbie that in order for any test to be conclusive, Robbie
would have to wait three months if he wanted a true result.  He also told
him that having the test done was a very serious step, and should not be
entered into lightly.  Robbie began to get cold feet, he hadn't realised
what a big step taking the test would be.  Patrick asked him some pretty
personal questions, he was reassured that his answers were totally
confidential.  Therefore Robbie gave Patrick his complete sexual history,
not that it amounted to much.

Robbie returned after the incubation period had elapsed, asking to see
Patrick again.  He had a further chat with him; his old feelings of lust
about the stud sat opposite him hadn't diminished with the passage of time.
Robbie agreed to let a nurse take a sample of his blood.  Patrick had
warned him that it would take three weeks for the result to come back;
Robbie was distressed that he'd have to endure another wait.

When Robbie returned to hear the negative test result, his previous
reticence about not asking Patrick out on a date had evaporated due to his
exuberance on hearing the good news.

To Robbie's amazement, Patrick agreed to go to a movie with him.  One thing
led to another and the two became very good friends.  Robbie's world shook
a little when Patrick confessed his HIV-positive status to him.  However
much to Robbie's own surprise he took Patrick's HIV status on the chin,
telling the older man that it made no difference to their friendship.
Patrick had been a little worried about disclosing his status to a man who
he had grown very fond of over the weeks that they'd been going out.  He'd
experienced rejection from his friends and family when they had learned of
his condition.

Patrick soon agreed to move in with Robbie into his tiny Mayfair flat.  The
two had enjoyed a rich and fulfilling sex life.  Patrick had assured Robbie
that he was safe from infection if they took the proper precautions.

Everything in Robbie's world was wonderful.  Professionally, he became very
successful; his programmes began to sell, and his bank balance grew at a
ridiculous rate.  The two enjoyed four years of domestic bliss; they rarely
argued, as their personalities seemed to be so well matched.  Robbie
thought that he'd found long-term happiness and was even contemplating
coming out to his family.

Then the evil spectre that was Patrick's illness began to raise its ugly
head.  The combination therapies to help treat HIV hadn't come on stream
yet, so there was little Patrick could do to keep himself well.  He'd
managed to get on an AZT programme, but this didn't seem to help arrest his
falling T Cell count.  He withheld the news of his deteriorating health for
as long as he could, but he began to fall prey to an increasing number of
infections, his depressed immune system wasn't able to fight back.  Patrick
developed a racking cough, and much to Robbie's alarm he began to cough up
blood.

Unfortunately this marked the beginning of the end.  Patrick spent more and
more time as an in-patient.  The finale of their relationship was played
out in a sterile hospital room, with Robbie lying on the bed next to his
dying lover, holding him in a tight embrace as the life forces ebbed away
from Patrick's virus-ravaged body.

"If I can, love, I'll watch over you from up there."  The words were said
haltingly, they were the last that Patrick uttered before he gave up his
fight for life.

* * * * *

"What is it, love?"  Sarah's words, and a light touch on his shoulder
brought Robbie back to the present.

Robbie lifted his tear-streaked face up to the kind-hearted woman and in a
voice that shook with emotion he uttered Patrick's name.

Sarah looked at the book laying open on Robbie's lap.  She picked it up and
began to read aloud in a strong and steady voice.

	"The Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
	All pray in their distress;
	And to these virtues of delight
	Return their thankfulness.

	For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
	Is God, our Father dear,
	And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love
	Is man, His child and care.

	For Mercy has a human heart,
	Pity a human face,
	And Love, the human form divine,
	And Peace, the human dress.

	Then every man, of every clime,
	That prays in his distress,
	Prays to the human form divine,
	Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

	For all must love the human form,
	In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
	Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
	There God is dwelling."

"It was his favourite poem."  Robbie said quietly.

"It's alright, love, let it all out."  She said going down on her arthritic
knees and taking the distressed man into her arms.  "It's the sixth
anniversary of his death next week, isn't it?"

Robbie stopped crying, the surprise evident in his voice.  "You
remembered?"

"Of course I did, love. I've re-read all your letters so many times, you
know.  You always wrote such nice letters, I only wished I could have used
the same big words that you did."

"Oh Sarah, that's silly, you wrote me some really good letters too, and
your copperplate handwriting was always so much better than my scribbling."
Robbie said looking fondly at his friend.

"Well, we were taught how to write properly at school."  Sarah said
remembering the gorgon of a teacher who would deliver a sharp slap over the
knuckles of anyone who smudged the ink in his or her copybooks.

"Come on, let me help you up."  He said giving Sarah his hand.  She rose
rather stiffly, wincing at the pain in her knees.

"Have you been to see the doctor about your rheumatism?"

"No, he only goes on about me losing weight when I see him."

The pair moved over to a two-seater sofa and sat down.  "He has a point,
love."  Robbie said gently.  "Look, ever since dad died I've been more
aware of my own mortality.  Please, Sarah, apart from mum and Bea, you're
the only real family I've got left, and I don't want anything to happen to
you."  He looked fondly into her wrinkled face.

"Oh you sweet boy, I don't plan on going anywhere soon, but I'll think
about taking better care of myself."

"You promise?"

"I promise."  She said raising her hand to his face, running a finger down
his cheek.

The two sat hand in hand for a while; the only noise to be heard was the
gentle steady tick-tocking of the library clock.  The room in which they
sat faced west, and it caught the sun as it began to set in the evening
sky.  Looking through the window at the pleasant early evening, Robbie
suggested that they go out for a walk down to the town.

"It would make a change to have a nice young man on my arm."  Sarah said
smiling.

"And I'll have the pleasure of a nice young lady on my arm, too."

"You silly boy, it's years since anyone called me a young lady."  Sarah
said going to the door.  "I'll put on a cardigan though, I've got to keep
my old joints well wrapped up, you know."

They walked across the drive and began descending the hill.  Fortunately
the house didn't have extensive grounds, because Robbie knew little if
anything about horticulture.  He was aware that a man in the village came
up three mornings a week and saw to the lawns and small kitchen garden at
the back of the house.

Robbie sighed.

"Penny for them?"  Sarah asked.

"Oh all this."  He said waving his hand across the wooded hillside and the
expanse of green fields, with the town nestled below them.  "It's a world
away from London, I don't mind admitting I've missed the place.  You know
the peaceful tranquility of it all."

"I don't know how you managed to live in London, all them people rushin'
about, nobody having the time to stop for a chat.  No, I don't know how you
stood it, Mister, erm, sorry Robbie.  It wouldn't have done me, I know
that."

"You've lived all your life around these parts, haven't you, Sarah?"

"Yes, three generations of my family have been in service to the Foster's."

"Does that ever depress you?  I mean being at the beck and call of others,
being held down by people who considered themselves your betters?"  Robbie
had a healthy dislike for the outmoded upstairs-downstairs culture.

"No, not at all.  Everyone knew their place and was happy in it."

"I don't think that was true.  A man who was born into the working classes,
say in the middle of the nineteenth century, knew pretty much that he'd
have to either go and work down a coalmine, or go into one of those
Godforsaken dark satanic mills, which I'm ashamed to say my family had a
large part in propagating.  If they were female, all they'd be expected to
do was either work in the cotton mill, or stay at home keeping house.  Or
in your family's case, be at the beck and call of others.  It's wrong Mrs
G, it was just wrong.  They didn't get the chance to improve their lot,
they were just forced down by the rigid class system."

Sarah shook her head.  "Well, what about your family.  They were brought up
to hold their station in life, they had responsibilities to the people
around them, they had to provide jobs for the townsfolk," She said pointing
at the houses set out below them.  "They weren't all that free to do what
they really wanted to do, either."

"They had a better life, though.  They didn't have to crawl around under
dangerous machinery cleaning it whilst it was still running, because the
factory owners, my family, were too tight-fisted and lacking in human
compassion to allow the loom or whatever to be shut down till the
maintenance was carried out."

"Things weren't always like that, you know."  Sarah defended.

"Yes, only because my family was forced into making changes because the
government began passing health and safety legislation. "

"The mill had to be kept running, because if it wasn't, another mill would
do the job instead."

"Yes, and where did they get the raw cotton from?  More oppressed workers.
Slavery!"  Robbie said, his fists clenching in anger.  He hated the whole
system that had brought about his family's wealth at the expense of
countless others.

"I know," Sarah said simply.  She could defend the class system in Britain
to some extent, but she could offer no defence against slavery.

"People nowadays have far more options, universal free education saw to
that."  Robbie said.

"Well, it helps, I guess, but there isn't one single answer to it all."
Sarah's upbringing and limited education wasn't up to a discussion on class
ethics.  "I remember a hymn we were taught at school.  'All Things Bright
And Beautiful.' Do you remember it?"

Robbie grinned, he knew the passage to which she was referring, and he
began to quote it.  "The rich man in his castle.  The poor man at his gate.
He made them high or lowly.  And ordered their estate."

"That's it."  Sarah encouraged.

"Merely a matter of trying to fool the working classes into accepting their
lot.  As Karl Marx said, 'Religion is the opiate of the masses.'"

Sarah shook her head.  She realised that she was from a very different
generation.  "I think we ought to turn back now, my knees are aching a
bit."

The two reversed direction. They slowly walked back up the hill; the sun
had gone down behind the horizon leaving a rich red sky in its wake.

"Red sky at night, shepherd's delight."  Sarah said seeing the
meteorological phenomenon.

They gained the gravel drive, took the few steps up to the front door,
Robbie opened it with his key and ushered his friend inside.


To be continued