The Steep Approach to Garbadale Read Online Free

the family ever done to you to make you like this? I know you’ve had some tough breaks, but we gave you—’
    Alban stops and spins round, and just for a second Fielding thinks he’s going to shout or at least poke a finger in his chest or maybe just point at him or, if nothing else, express himself with a bit of passion. But the look on his face fades almost before Fielding can be sure it’s really there and he shrugs and turns and starts walking again, along the broad sand-coloured pavement, between the twin streams of water and cars. ‘It’s all a long story. A long, boring story. Mostly I just got fed up with . . .’ His voice trails off. One more shrug.
    After a dozen or so steps, he asks, ‘How’s Lydcombe? You been there recently? They keeping the gardens tidy?’
    ‘I was there last month. It all looked fine to me.’ Fielding leaves a gap. ‘Aunt Clara, everybody else, they’re all well. Same with my parents. Thanks for asking.’
    Alban just grunts.
    Forget the draughty castle and thousands of windswept barren acres the family owns - for now, anyway - in the Highlands. Lydcombe, in Somerset, was the first serious out-of-town property purchase Great-Grandfather Henry made when he started to rake in his millions. Quite a beautiful setting, on the north edge of Exmoor National Park. Bit quiet, and a long way from London, but a good place for family holidays unless you want guaranteed sun. Only forty acres or so, but it’s lush and green and sunny and the grounds go rolling down to the coast of the Bristol Channel.
    Fielding was brought up in a few different places round the world, but as a kid he probably spent more holiday time there than anywhere else, in the big, rambling house overlooking the terraced lawns, close by the walled garden and the ruins of the old abbey. The main building is listed and, of course, it’s all part of the National Park so there are various planning restrictions if you wanted to do anything radical with the place.
    Alban knows Lydcombe better than Fielding. It was his home for most of his childhood, then he spent a couple of summers there as a teenager, discovering what green fingers he had. And thereby, of course, hangs the tale.
    Fielding’s moby chooses to go at this point, inside his jacket pocket. He’s left it on vibrate since he made the turn into Skye Crescent and probably missed a couple of calls - otherwise it’s been amazingly quiet. Fielding gets a weird, tight, unpleasant feeling in his guts when he’s out of touch for this long, like there’s vitally important stuff happening that he really needs to know about and there are people on the other end desperate for him to answer . . . Though of course he knows it’ll probably be nothing, or more likely just somebody asking a question they wouldn’t need to ask if they were seriously intent on actually doing their job rather than always passing the most trivial problem upstairs to cover their miserable asses. Even so - though his hand is itching to grab the fucker - he’s not going to answer. He ignores the vibrations, keeps up with Alban.
    This is all so annoying! He’s a good manager, a good person-manager and he has certificates to prove it, not to mention the respect of his peers and subordinates. He’s good at selling, good at persuading. Why is he finding it so hard to get through to this one guy he should feel closer to than most?
    ‘Look, Alban, okay, I can understand . . . Actually, no, I can’t understand’ (about tearing his hair out here!) ‘but I guess I just have to accept you feel the way you do about the family and the firm, but that’s part of what I need to talk to you about.’
    Alban turns to him. ‘Maybe we should get a drink.’
    ‘Whatever. Yeah, okay.’
     
They find a bar nearby, the lounge of a small hotel in the compressed-feeling town centre. Alban insists on paying and has a pint of IPA while Fielding takes a mineral water. It’s still before noon and the place is quiet