***chapter two***
***promises, promises***
Ron Stryker, fast asleep behind the barn, was jolted rudely awake by a sudden commotion.
Having lately been far too busy with his love life to follow footie, he'd been catching up on the world of sport with a three-day old edition of the Yorkshire Football Post (which its rightful owner, namely one Slugger Jones, having finally located his unchecked pools coupon, was still trying to locate). Like the responsible person he'd allegedly become, Ron meant to spend just five minutes refinedly browsing through its pages, but the sun had been pleasantly warm and he'd soon nodded off. As usual. And not a single one of his promised chores had been completed. As usual. And everyone's cynical observation that there was no way he'd turned over a new leaf proved correct. As usual.
But the morning hadn't started out like that.
The morning had started out with glorious golden sunshine, and with Ron studying his reflection in the mirror as he tied his stylish new olive green cravat, a gift from the lovely Helen to "match his fab red hair", jauntily around his throat. While making yet another resolution. From this moment on, he told himself, he was going to be a respectable citizen. Surely, with his shoulders thrown back and his manly lantern jaw, already he looked the part? And even though he had overslept, probably due to the partaking of a few too many beers last night, instead of taking the whole day off, he'd ring his employer, Colonel Maddocks, to inform him he would only be a couple of hours late.
Mr Stryker senior, being required at an early morning meeting, had long since left for his high-powered job in the city or he might well have roused Ron much sooner than Ron roused himself. He'd begged his friend the colonel to return the favour of his business advice by giving his wayward son a job to keep him out of trouble, and, as a result, was permanently torn between gratitude that his sole heir was being kept on a straight and narrow path and embarrassment when Ron yet again teetered on the edge and hit the grass. There was no Mrs Stryker. Or, at least, there had been once, a long time ago, but more of that later in our story.
Feeling almost saintly at his decision to go into work, Ronald Gilroy Stryker, who should have been at Follyfoot over an hour ago, carried a mug of tea and two door-stop sized bacon sandwiches smeared with brown sauce into the garden and, his legs sprawled out before him, dined al fresco, enjoying the smallest of breezes riffling through his fashionable shoulder-length hair, being entertained by the occasional gossamer cloud sailing slowly through an azure sky and a variety of birds dunking their feathers in the large ornamental fountain at the bottom of the extensive garden.
At last he finished his leisurely breakfast, yawned, stretched, and strolled back indoors to dial Follyfoot Farm. Convinced the colonel would be over the moon to hear that one of his best-ever stable hands (as Ron fondly imagined himself to be) would be putting in an appearance, he was brought back down to earth with a nasty bump. The bulk of the jobs had already been done, his irate employer yelled angrily down the receiver, and if he didn't get his lazy ass down here immediately he'd pull strings with top brass and enrol him for National Service. (Even though he knew National Service had been abolished over a decade ago, Ron shuddered involuntarily. The colonel had way too many ex-Army contacts for his liking.) Furthermore, Geoffrey Maddocks added, in a full blaze of fury, he could make up for his idleness by doing Dora, Steve and Slugger's work while they took a well-earned break. Ron clicked the phone back in its cradle, rubbed his sore ear and sighed. Couldn't he actually see it was very good of him to turn up when he could have simply feigned illness? (Not that anyone ever believed his illness stories, but still…)
He sighed again. He had no choice but to go in to Follyfoot today. He was strapped for cash and Dad, who used to dole out the readies at the drop of a hat, absolutely refused to give him money for nothing anymore. And the lovely Helen, with whom he was smitten, had very firm views on "spongers". In fact, Helen Shepherd was the reason behind his brand new persona. This time. For if the fiery-haired youth had been given a pound for every promise he made fully intending to keep, he'd have been a very rich man indeed. Instead his promises crumbled so quickly that, had they been pie crusts and he a pie-maker, he would have lived out his days in poverty.
Ron was full of good intentions, but as his elderly neighbour often told him, when she complained, yet again, about his noisy motorbike waking her late at night and, yet again, Ron promised faithfully if it was after eleven o'clock he'd get off the bike at the bottom of the street and push it quietly home, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.
The fire, screams and stomping hooves that he woke to made him wonder if he'd arrived there much sooner than Hell had been expecting him…
