Chapter 6C

Sunday evening found me in the bar at the Albion, drinking a pint of Yates and, basically, people watching. Ms White - or Alison as she'd now decided that I should call her - had taken the car she'd hired and was driving round the local area trying to find a mobile phone signal. Which was a blessed relief - since we'd met on Euston station that afternoon we'd had a series of clashes and misunderstandings ... her insistence on travelling first class (as one "could not work in standard", which was news to me) and then spending the entire journey on her mobile trying to arrange a hire car - I'd sort of assumed we'd use buses and taxis, silly me - followed by her utter disapproval of the hotel, which I thought was excellent - in a sort of eccentric, possibly chaotic type of way. Also the fact that apparently I'd failed to be nice about the clothes she was wearing - probably just as well, I thought, given that my initial reaction was to think that some people just shouldn't attempt to dress casually - and ... oh, well, we didn't get on. The fact that the hotel didn't have any sort of cell phone or wi-fi coverage - and of course neither of our laptops had any sort of dial up modem - was about the last straw. I simply phoned Seff and asked her to route any urgent messages through the hotel but Ms White - no, Alison, must try to be polite - had stomped off in a huff. And I don't think that she took too kindly to my suggestion that she might want to try climbing one of the local peaks, try for a signal there ... but then, it was raining ... and she didn't really look the type, anyway, to be honest.

So, for a while, I was on my own, which was basically fine by me. It wasn't busy in the bar - three or four locals in a group in the corner and another old guy I recognised from previous visits to the area, in the same seat as always, not so much a regular in the pub as a resident. One or two people came in and headed through to the restaurant - I still had hopes that the much vaunted food would go some way to mollifying my colleague - but otherwise it was just a nice evening in a quiet English pub. There was a log fire, the pub collie stretched out in front of it ... I began to wish I'd been able to bring Carla here - an American would go for this big time ... or maybe Debbie ... or maybe not. I didn't really want to go there, just at that moment ... some situations just need time to resolve.

To distract myself, I went up to the bar and bought a beer - quite an effective displacement activity, in my experience. One of the locals was ordering a round, but she turned and said hello, which I acknowledged with a nod - smallish woman, hair cut short, old fleece jacket over a National Trust T-shirt, I noticed - and prepared myself for the inevitable inquisition.

I didn't have long to wait, as she immediately asked, "Not drinking with your friend, then? I hope she's feeling all right? Long drive, was it?"

I gave my cynical side a quick pat on the back for predictive accuracy, smiled and replied that Alison was a colleague, not a friend, that she was off for a drive and that anyway we'd come up most of the way by train. Obviously, I wasn't going to get way with just that, and inevitably the next question was whether we were up on business, the follow up, what that business might be precisely, hanging in the air. My London self immediately suggested that the business in question was none of hers but I realised that this was a potential neighbour ... and, anyway, I knew how the grapevine hereabouts worked. Resistance was futile, so I told her that we were up looking at commercial properties, were intending to relocate a business somewhere in the vicinity. Quick as a flash, she came back with the suggestion that we must be the people interested in the old slate works - I could only nod - and asked whether we were into time shares, 4x4 driving experiences, guided hill walks?

"No, actually," I said, as she paid for the drinks for her friends, "We're not a tourist operation - more software and consultancy; IT basically."

"Oh ... right," she said, as I took my turn to order my pint - Coniston Bluebird, this time, "You'd be better off talking to my sister about that - she teaches ICT in the local college." She began to head back to her table, four pints impressively stable in her hands, and then turned briefly back to me. "One thing about the slate works, though ... it floods just about every winter. You might want to bear that in mind..."

I nodded gratitude - interestingly there had been no reference to any such problem in any of the details we'd seen - and sort of wondered why people always seemed to think that anyone vaguely involved with computers would automatically want to talk to anyone else in a similar line of work. Did the same thing happen to accountants? Vets?

Alison returned at that point, various e-mails, texts and voice mails successfully retrieved, and gracefully accepted a glass of white wine. And then we went and ate - the food was excellent, although apparently the "plates didn't match" - and, by the time I got back into the bar for a further Bluebird, it was quite a lot busier and my previous informant nowhere to be seen.

Next morning, I was up pretty much with the dawn and took an early walk round from the hotel to Church Gate - only a couple of kilometres up the valley and the site of the slate works we'd primarily come to see. It was a beautiful building - all slate of course, but in serious need of work ... and, yes, I'd spent enough time in the area to see that it probably would be vulnerable when the river rose in a storm. Which was something to discuss when we met with the vendor later on, I thought, my mind more on the chaffinches flitting around the trees...

When I got back to the Albion, I found Alison complaining to a waitress about some aspect of her breakfast - I think as much from force of habit as any genuine grievance - but I managed to drag her away before she could escalate the situation and instead guided us both into the lounge to talk business. Which we did - no one offered us coffee or anything, which I didn't find a complete surprise. She was pleased to tell me that she'd managed to get hold of a complete set of plans for the building the previous evening, less pleased when I pointed out that Debbie had given me the same file about a fortnight before. Nonetheless, we kept things together enough to have a fairly sensible discussion about tactics and priorities for the day's meetings and soon enough found it was time to set off. Bizarrely, she seemed to think I should drive - gender stereotyping or what? - and I felt my stock reach an all time low when I pointed out that this probably wouldn't be a good idea, given that I'd never learnt how to. And the hire car was on her credit card.

We drove to the site in silence.

In fact, the first meeting was brief, but went very well. I hadn't realised - and, OK, had never thought to ask - that Ms White was, inter alia, a qualified surveyor and she and the sales agent made a brisk tour of the building. No surprises: It did need work - a new roof for instance - and the internal decor and fittings were shoddy and, well, crap ... even for former holiday flats. That said, the layout was workable, with a large central space that would make a fine office, a variety of rooms upstairs and in a couple of outbuildings that would make very pleasant accommodation for any of the staff willing to "live in" - such as me. And, a part of my mind put in, hopefully also Debbie...

Distraction required again, I thought, so I took the opportunity to ask the agent bloke about flooding. He looked a bit uncomfortable, admitted that it could sometimes be a problem and then, on further sharp questioning from Alison - who didn't look at all pleased not to have raised the subject herself - that actually, yes, it flooded most years. Which might have been a real sticking point, except that the guy from the local district council - I'd almost forgotten he was there - piped up with the news that a flood management plan had been developed and costed some time ago ... and he could get it to us by the time we met with the council's people that afternoon. The ball park figure he suggested was not excessive, however ... and could probably be at least partially met by reducing the overall price we were offering for the property. Not that the agent looked happy about this, but - hell, nobody else was going to be that interested in buying an intermittent pond, either, so...

We finished up with my informing everyone that we - I meant my lot, not Ms White and I (I'd lost interest in anything but her technical opinions by this stage) - were very interested in pursuing the purchase (the agent looked a bit happier at this) and that we would meet again that afternoon to go into some more details, sort out our IT requirements (that fibre optic upgrade) and talk about the grants being offered by the Regional Development people - and the planning stipulations being imposed by the National Park. A good meeting, then, and a good morning's work.

Ms White buggered off down the valley immediately we were done - that connectivity obsession, again - reluctantly promising to come back to pick me up and give me a lift into Kendal for the next round. Which left me with a free couple of hours, so I went back to the hotel, enquired, politely, if there were any messages - there weren't - and then took myself back to Church Gate for lunch in the cafe there.

Which was deserted, it being well past the season, but at least it was actually open. I was perusing the (limited) menu when the waitress? Catering assistant? Proprietor? came through ... and turned out to be the woman I'd briefly talked to in the bar the previous evening. And so, we did a good Cumbrian exchange ... she gave me a quiche and a cup of coffee, I gave her my life story - or at least as much of it as related to that morning, together with the necessary background to explain why a bedraggled hippy looking bloke was in a position to buy a fair chunk of the local landscape for cash.

I'll say this, she was an easy person to talk to ... and a very astute questioner. She also appeared to know everyone in the neighbourhood - well, not a massive surprise, given the nature of the valley - and was soon suggesting local tradesmen (not all of them actually related to her) who'd be ideal for this and that part of the renovation job. Which was a bit premature, I thought ... but a bloody good effort on her part. Also, it was a very nice quiche, so I left the cafe a lot happier than when I'd gone in ... and, in passing, enquired whether she'd be in the bar that evening. I don't know why, exactly ... but it might have had something to do with Alison ... or more precisely trying to avoid getting stuck with her for an entire evening...

The good mood survived for a surprisingly long time. In fact, all the way through the afternoon session with the Council and similar types - there was even a bloke from BT there, so we got the fibre to premises access sorted on the spot, basically leasing two thirds of an expanded cable from them - three year deal, no capital outlay. I provided outline drawings for what we thought the finished building might look like (Debbie had got our architect neighbours to prepare them, not that she'd told me at the time) and, basically, we got everything we could reasonably expect ... including at least verbal agreement that detailed planning permission would not be a problem. So it was all systems go, I gave a "final" offer price to the current owner, taking into account the flood remediation costs. He, of course, was more than happy to do a deal that could get substantial amounts of cash in the bank within weeks and, with a final set of handshakes all round, we - that is, Ms White and I - were out on the street, me feeling pretty pleased with life, her complaining about the rain.

We almost drove back to the hotel in silence, too - until she managed to scrape the side of the car down the side of a sheep trailer, after which we shouted at each other quite a lot. Christ, even I could have driven better on a single track road...

I was not completely mortified by the fact that Ms White withdrew to her room as soon as we arrived back at the Hotel - impressively, not even pausing to pick an argument with any of the staff on the way - and I found myself back in the bar ... or actually, on a seat outside, admiring the view of the river, the smell of wood smoke from the houses around, the tranquillity of a late afternoon village green. I'd taken the opportunity to pick up my own messages and mail when I was in town, also to phone May (Debbie and Phil had moved on up to Yorkshire, seemed to be having a good time) and Seff (nothing vital, but a big cheer from Naz when she passed on the news about the building... ). So I was feeling pretty relaxed. It would be nice to share this place with the crew, I felt, nice to get settled into a final form of the operation. It was just a shame that the work on the building would take about three months, minimum, to get finished ... and that was if we adopted a money no object approach to contracting. Well, I thought ... it wasn't my money ... and people did want us up and running as soon as possible, so...

This pleasant reverie was interrupted by the emergence of a group of people from the bar, all of whom settled at the table next to mine, despite the fact that there was more than enough space available elsewhere. Which would have been fine, except that the Conversation Leader - a woman in her forties, at a guess, tweed coat, cropped hair - had an incredibly loud and screechy voice, dominating the conversation - and, despite my best efforts, my attention - with a series of profoundly inane generalities, all of which seemed to be lapped up by her audience. Initially horrified, I became fascinated - rarely had a I seen someone with so few social skills ... or at least not out and about in public. I wondered if I should introduce Tweed Woman to Ms White...

Actually, I was saved from doing anything of the sort by the arrival of an ancient Landrover, which pulled up directly beside me - what was this, I thought? Have I suddenly developed a magnetic personality? - after which a large and very muddy Labrador leapt out the back door and immediately shoved its nose into my crotch. Worse, it spilled my beer. Which tragedy distracted me somewhat from the emergence of its owner, a woman in standard issue outdoor gear - green gore-tex and a fleece hat - who proceeded to attempt to drag a by now extremely friendly dog off my leg while simultaneously greeting me ... by name.

I have to confess that I might well have let some surprise show on my normally impassive physiognomy. Or, to be honest, I gave her a sort of gobsmacked goggle, descending jaw very nearly landing in the pool of spilled beer ... which the dog, I noted, was now hoovering up. Whatever, she noticed my double take and laughed heartily in a sort of hearty Cumbrian manner.

"I better get you another beer, I guess," she said, and disappeared into the bar without bothering to introduce herself or explain how on earth she knew me. I found myself holding on to a fractious dog and being glared at by Tweed Woman whose monologue the previous events seemed to have disrupted. Well, sod you, I thought ... I don't see how on earth I could be held responsible for any of that and ... anyway ... I'm now armed with a muddy dog, so...

None of which was vocalised, of course, but I was still maintaining eye contact when the next surprise turned up - specifically, another female voice from behind me.

"See you've met Kath, then ... or at least Harry the harebrained hound. Bet she's at the bar, the bastard ... better go catch her before she's finished ordering..." and with that swept past me the woman from the cafe ... and the bar the previous evening. Still leaving me with the dog ... and a somewhat shell shocked mental state ... but, at least distracting Tweed Woman's attention. She was now staring (with some hostility) at my - umm - acquaintance's retreating back. I decided to pet the dog and await further developments. See what happened next. A team of parachutists arriving? Sudden volcanic eruption in the hills? It really wouldn't have surprised me.

What actually happened next was that a pint of beer arrived. Or three pints of beer, actually, but I only got to drink one of them. The other two were retained by the person I now knew to be Kath - now sans waterproofs and revealed to be an intelligent looking woman in a fleece sweatshirt, dark blonde hair roughly tied into a short pony tail - and my inquisitor (her sister, it appeared) who finally introduced herself as Rosie. And took charge of the dog, for which I was extremely grateful.

And they were fun ... I never really got the chance to ask what they were doing in the pub - I assumed my earlier half invitation was excuse enough for a bit of gossip gathering (or maybe, to be charitable, just to meet someone new in a very small valley) - but we started to talk immediately and by the time I went off to buy a second round we could have been mistaken for lifelong friends. And when we agreed to decamp to the pub at the head of the valley to eat (I did invite Ms White to join us but, thankfully, she decided to sulk instead) the conversation was flowing fast ... and loose.

As it were.

I learnt that Tweed Woman was in fact the local vicar - now, that was a surprise -, that Kath was indeed an IT teacher, that Rosie was only just hanging on to her job at the cafe and associated shop (I think they only really keep me on for charity, she said at one point) and that both were married. Except that Rosie's husband was away at sea nine months of the year and Kath's had departed long ago. ("We were both teachers. I got head of department, he didn't. Poor sod couldn't handle it," she said, simply enough.) They learnt pretty much everything there was to know about CastList, about Bronstein Associates (Europe) ... even about me. And we all got fairly seriously drunk - so much so that we ended up leaving the Landrover at the pub ... and walking the eight kilometres down the valley back to Church Gate. It was a fun night, trust me...

Next morning, I woke slightly late - well, too late for the hotel breakfast, although the receptionist kindly offered to get something together for me, which I declined. Instead, I collected three messages ... all left behind the desk earlier on ... one from Kath, one from Rosie and one from Alison.

I read them in that order. Kath's was succinct. Hope you're still OK about talking about OpenSource software to my A level students - see you at the college about 3pm? I read that a couple of times, didn't mean anything to me. Bloody hell, I thought, it really was a good night. Rosie's on the other hand, was simpler: 'Just a thought, but while you're waiting for building work to be done, you could always take over some of the holiday homes in the valley - most of them are available over winter.' And her phone number, should I wish to follow up on the idea. Good thinking, I thought - and opened message number three. Alison, I learnt, had decided not to remain in a "substandard" hotel and had checked out to one in Bowmere, taking the (now slightly mangled) hire car with her. I, she informed me, could 'presumably get a bus' into today's meeting? Well, yeah, of course, I thought ... and probably be a lot safer than with her driving.

In the event, I got a lift: I asked the receptionist if there was a bus timetable about and she told me that someone from the hotel would be driving in later to pick up some venison, so ... So I was early enough for the meeting to do a courtesy visit to the local National Trust offices - a surprisingly well informed local office, of course (that grapevine, again) - and then on to our seller's solicitors to finalise the arrangements. Well, not finalise, exactly - PCW would have to OK the contracts before actually releasing the money - but I made a formal offer, proved that we did in fact have the money and signed a statement of intent. All very avuncular, surprisingly so for a small town solicitor's but also very quick. And even quicker was the conversation in which I suggested to Alison that she could probably head back to London - we clearly wouldn't need to visit the reserve list properties while I could sort out what few other bits and pieces I needed done without her expert assistance. Needless to say, she wasn't pleased to be effectively dismissed, but she didn't pretend to be sorry to go - I don't suppose that she'd been enjoying the experience any more than I had.

All of which gave me time to wander down to the eponymous lake and enjoy the view over a coffee before finally getting on a bus for the short hop out to Kath's college. I checked phone and e-mail, of course - nothing out of the routine. Seffi seemed to be coping well, Carla to be keen to know everything about the deal. Well, that could wait until I was back in London on Thursday.

For the moment, though, I was into Education ... or perhaps killing a dead afternoon by talking to a bunch of kids. Whatever. The college itself was a pretty flash affair, lots of plate glass and the inevitable slate, probably no more than ten years old and, for a change, blessed with clear signage, so that I soon found myself in reception ... and finally in the company of Kath ... who had the good grace to look slightly surprised at the fact that I'd actually turned up.

She also looked slightly hungover, I thought, and the ribbed wool dress she was wearing was just slightly too small for her - must have been her sister's, I guess - and was quite clingy enough to be very popular with her more hormonal students. Strapping lass, was our Kath. And, it turned out, a good teacher. Which is to say, her "kids" - all seventeen or eighteen and (from the work they showed me) promising programmers and analysts among them - gave me a pretty hard time. Actually, I hadn't realised that Unix was on the syllabus, so I didn't have to go into the technical side of GNU - everything's a file, live with it - ... but they couldn't get their heads round the idea of giving away code for free. Until I explained what brought me to the Lakes in the first place ... and then they were perhaps prepared to give the concept grudging acceptance, mini-capitalist bastards as most of them were ... Oh, and quite a few of them asked about possible jobs ... which was interesting ... must get Naz to keep up the link, I thought ... maybe offer some student placements in holidays and things.