Book of Ma'Chi - 02 - Martin's pick up

coachsteff (31)in #writing • 7 years ago (edited)

Martin left the Land Rover running as he set off across the thirty meters to the side of Bakeside station platform. There were no worries about it being stolen up here in their remote part of the English Lake District.

The station was used mainly by walkers as an arrival point or destination for a days walking and discovery of the fells around Bakeside, and now it was quite deserted.

The train was only three minutes late – not bad for the third train of the day, which Martin had come to meet. He was picking up the members of the ‘HomeFoods’ company who had hired the ‘Centre for New Equilibrium’ for the week, for a strategy and development session.

The centre was run by Martin’s father Bernard. He had been the main protagonist in setting up the centre five years ago. His dad managed the centre for the consortium that had bought the old estate. He had supervised the renovation work and these days he ran it along with the staff of five.

As the train stopped, three women stepped down and walked over the coarse gravel towards Martin.

“Hello, you must be our driver.” said Jenny, a woman in her forties, dressed for the drizzly rain and cold temperatures to be found in the Lake District at this time of year.

A tall man loped across the gravel from the back of the train and joined the group.

“Ah, Jen! Nearly didn’t make it. My, you’re looking rather ravishing today!”
“Ekantika”, Jenny said, ignoring the compliment, “this Edward, our CEO.”
“Ekantika!” Edward effused, “my dearest thing! How lovely to meet you! Pity about the weather!”

He put his luggage next to the others and climbed into the front passenger seat of the Land Rover, sliding the seat back as he folded his legs under the dashboard.

Martin checked the participants’ list on his clipboard and loaded their luggage into the back. As he was assessing these latest participants to arrive, he made his decision as to whether he was going to give them the smooth or the bumpy ride back to the centre.

The smooth way was on the road through the village of Bakeside, around the lake and in through the imposing lime tree lined front entrance of the estate. This took about twenty-five minutes. The bumpy ride was up the farm track, over the hill to the back of the estate, only possible with the long wheelbase Land Rover that he was driving. This route is anything but smooth in February when the potholes had been enlarged by the winters frost and snow. He preferred this route as is it enabled him to show off his Land Rover driving skills a bit. He also enjoyed shocking the visitors into challenging their image of the civilised place that they thought they were coming to.

So when his four passengers had found their seat belts he drove round the car park and set up set off up the farm track, with grass up the middle, bumping his way through the water filled ruts, heading up into the mists on top of the hill. After a couple of minutes they were completely engulfed in the mist and he could hear the murmurs in the back of the Land Rover about where this lad was going with them. Martin ignored them as he always did and ploughed on up the track, taking care to make the most of the big splashes available in the larger ruts.

The back of the house was not as impressive as the front, with its gravel semicircle and the view down over the hillside to the lake and across to the fells beyond. The back had been the working part of the old estate, the farm buildings had been used up to twenty years ago, with the barn and the cowsheds built on two sides of the square. The third side of the square were the various storage areas and workshops, with the entrance between them and the fourth part being the rear of the house.

Martin took his passengers, grateful to have found civilization again, round the back of the redbrick buildings and turned right into the main entrance to the house. It always gave him a moment of pleasure as his passengers realised that they had arrived and that indeed the place where they were going to spend the next five days was quite something.

At seventeen he spent most of his time hating everything to do with his father and being stuck out in the middle of nowhere like this. A little bit of him was proud of the fact that his dad was the manager of this ‘Centre for New Equilibrium’ and that every now and then he played a useful part in the running of the operation.

The passengers took their luggage from the back door of the Land Rover and went towards the granite steps to the main door, which had been opened by Bernard, an imposing figure at the top of the steps, with his beard and ponytail, showing little sign of his years.

The forty-year-old woman greeted Bernard as he came down the steps with a big smile, a kiss and a hug, and enquired how he was doing and how the centre was and what was news since they last met, pausing in the string of questions to introduce the other passengers from the Land Rover.

“Bernard, meet Ekantika our coach and facilitator for the week. And this is Edward, our CEO, and that is Shari, Ekantika‘s daughter.”

Martin had already shut the back door of the Land Rover and was driving round the semicircle back out to the garage in the converted cow shed, as the latest batch of participants in HomeFoods’ week of strategy moved towards the front door.

“Isn’t your son a little young to be driving a Land Rover?” asked Ekantika.

“He’s seventeen”, said Bernard, “he’s been driving land Rovers around the estate since he was fourteen, and the farm track he’s just bought you up is private land, so the local police don’t bother him. Why? Was he testing the suspension on you? It amuses him to shake up the townies that come up here, especially when the potholes are full of water to splash…”

His words were lost in the noise of a car over revving its engine and braking to skid in the gravel of the semi-circle. The group turned to two people climbing out of the silver Porsche Carrera GT model 2010.

“And this is Graham and his PA Lizzie”, Jenny told Bernard with a hint of irony in her voice.

Both Graham and Lizzie enjoyed the attention of the group as they took their luggage, pulled their coats on and made their way across the gravel. Halfway across Graham’s small stout figure exclaimed in a loud Rochdale accent for everybody to hear: “Ye need Porscher suspension t’ cope wi’ roads ‘round ‘ere!”

Lizzie, a small, slender young woman with shoulder length blond hair, followed two paces behind. Her gaping coat revealed an outfit that reflected her mastery of the balance between style and sexy. She made eye contact with Jenny in a greeting with raised eyebrows of common understanding.

Bernard smiled inwardly and led the way up the steps. “Come along inside”, he said addressing the group, “I’ll give you your room keys and let me show you around, we’ve done quite a bit of work since you were here last Jenny! We have five new bedrooms, two new break out rooms and the dining room has been redecorated.”

Martin's taxi work was done for the day. After washing down the outside of the Land Rover with the high-pressure hose he drove it into the garage and had a quick look to see if the inside needed brushing out.

When taking out the wet carpets from under the seats he caught a glimpse of bronze reflection in the corner of his eye. He looked under the rear seat and found what looked like a book, with an old soft brown leather cover with a blueish embossed inlay. He reached under the seat and picked it up, a bit worse for wear in the wet under the seat. Curiously he opened the cover and saw the inscription ‘from Iskandar to Brian, a compass for your journey’.

“Probably one of the visitors brought it along and lost it”, he thought. Martin took the participants’ list from the front of the land rover, to see on which trip there had been a Brian. To his mild surprise he didn't find one, so he put the book on the workbench and went off to the kitchen to see if François had tea ready, because he was really hungry.

François was a good cook in Martin's eyes, he could do the fancy French stuff, which the guests enjoyed, but he also understood about good old English cooking. Apparently he'd done part of his studies at an English College, and much to Martin's delight he would bake sticky toffee pudding or bread-and-butter pudding or one of those delicious, filling, English greats, complete with skinny hot custard, once a week. Just up Martins street in terms of good wholesome food.

Martin ate with François and his girlfriend Beverly, who was helping him out in the kitchen, Mrs Collins the housekeeper and Alex, her assistant. His dad, not unusually, was still off settling the guests in. Martin had gone back to his den above the garage when Bernard finally arrived to hastily eat leftovers.