Free Free to Trade by Michael Ridpath

write. I'm sure he has found a lovely sheep farm. I saw one on telly last week which I am sure would do for us.'
    'I am sure he will write soon. Let's go out and see the garden,' I said, trying to change the subject. But it was no use.
    'It really is inconsiderate of him, you know. All I need is a quick letter. I know it's expensive to phone from that distance. Have you heard from him?'
    'No, Mum, I'm afraid I haven't,' I said.
    Nor was I likely to. My father hadn't gone to Australia. Or Argentina, or Canada, as my mother had suggested over the years. He had died.
    It had happened when I was eleven, and although I hadn't actually seen it, what I had seen would always remain with me. Something had caught in the combine harvester on our farm, and he had tried to free it. But he had left the engine on. I was kicking a football against the wall on the other side of the barn. I had heard a shout over the noise of the engine, which cut off abruptly. I ran round the barn to find what was left of my father.
    Eventually I had come to terms with the shock. My mother never did. She had been devoted to my father and could not accept his death. She had created another world for herself, one in which he was still alive, and one in which she could be comfortable.
    My father was the tenant of one of the largest farms on an estate, and was respected by everyone in the village. This had made the lives of my mother, my older sister and me easier. Lord Mablethorpe, the owner of the estate, had spent a lot of time on my father's farm, discussing with him ever more efficient ways to get the maximum yield from it. They had become firm friends. When my father died, Lord Mablethorpe had given us a tied cottage to live in, promising it to my mother for as long as she lived. My father had taken out a generous life-insurance policy which gave us enough to live on, and the neighbours were all kind and helpful.
    My father was a good man. I knew that because everyone always said so. I remembered him as a big, fierce man with a strong sense of right and wrong. I had always done my best to please him and I had usually succeeded. On the occasions when I failed to meet his expectations, there was all hell to pay. At the end of one term I had come home from school with a report criticising me for playing the fool in class. He had given me a lecture on the importance of learning at school. I was top of the class the next term.
    His death, and the effect it had on my mother, seemed so unfair, unjust. I was stricken by my inability to do anything about it. It made me angry.
    It was then that I had started running. I ran for miles over the hills, pushing myself to the limit that my small lungs could bear. I would battle my way through the cold wind and gloom of a Yorkshire winter, seeking some solace in the lonely struggle against the moors.
    I also worked hard at school, determined to live up to what I imagined my father would have expected of me. I had struggled into Cambridge. Despite spending so much time on athletics, I had managed a respectable degree. By the time I started my Olympic campaign, determination and the desire to win had become a habit. It would be wrong to say that I had driven myself to an Olympic medal just for him. But I secretly hoped he had seen me crossing the line for my bronze.
    My mother had never come to terms with my ambitions. Whilst my father was 'away', she had wanted my sister to marry a local farmer, and me to go to agricultural college so that I could look after the farm. My sister had obliged her, but I had not. After the accident, I could not face farming. But, in order to make her world habitable, my mother had decided that I was studying at an agricultural college in London. At first I had tried to contradict her, but she hadn't listened, so I gave up. She had been proud of my achievements on the track, but worried in case they were interfering with my studies.
    'It's a lovely afternoon,' I said, to try to change the subject.