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