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businesses.
    The Braddock dynasty had begun in land ownership and shoe manufacturing during the last century, before diversifying. The shoe business itself had been sold off to a conglomerate at a handsome price during the 1960s and the proceeds reinvested, mainly in property. My father, Edward Braddock, thus came from a long line of shrewd Midlands businessmen, and he had his fingers in several local pies. He had spent the late 1940s, 1950s and early 1960s as a plantation owner in Malaya, where I was born and where my mother died. He had remarried shortly after her death. My Thai stepmother, Nang, was the one who effectively raised me. In 1964, we returned to England where my father started up a number of companies and continued to build his gold pile. He also bought a part share in a golf club just outside Marbella, and picked up a non-executive directorship on the Board of a minor quoted company. He believed all our businesses needed to pay their way. The only sentimental investment he ever made was in The Bell at Bewdon, a tribute perhaps to the many happy years that he and my stepmother had spent in the village.
    A fervent believer in the Protestant work ethic, Edward Braddock was also determined that his only son was not to become a wastrel. My dropping out of university had alerted him to this possibility, and so he resolved without further ado to bring my nose into contact with the grindstone.
    “You’ve had your last summer without responsibility, David,” he had said . “It’s time for you to take your place in the world. Go out and get yourself a decent haircut. You start work on Monday.”
    And so I joined the family firm.
    Claire’s plans, meantime, had altered. The intention had been that following her year in Australia she would take up a place reading mathematics at Durham University, after which she would move into finance. In the event, she decided to forego the degree and, drawing on her family’s contacts, secured a position as an articled clerk in a firm of Chartered Accountants in Leicester.
    We both therefore had a foot on the bottom rung of the career ladder at the time of our first evening out together, which comprised dinner at an Italian restaurant I knew in Market Harborough. A safe venue, I thought, not wishing to rush things lest I mess up. I still felt uneasy too, for reasons I could not articulate, about the fact that Claire was Anna’s sister.
    “I don’t see you as a Chartered Accountant, Claire. I’m sorry, but I just don’t. After Monty Python, it’s impossible to take the profession seriously.”
    “The starting pay is pathetic,” she told me, “ but in four years I’ll be qualified, then look out world.”
    “Yes, then you can be a lion tamer.”
    “At least I won’t be selling second hand cars.”
    “O-o-o-h, catty. Anyway, they’re new cars.”
    She laughed, and her eyes flashed green naughtiness. “So tell me, what went wrong with you and university.”
    “The same as with you and university, I expect. We weren’t suited. Only you had the good sense to recognise it early.”
    “Travelling around Australia made me want to start making my way in the world. I don’t want to give up studying and go off and become a hippy, or anything like that. I just want to start earning, give myself some independence.”
    “Studying to be an accountant in Leicester sounds pretty unglamorous after what you’ve been doing for the last year.”
    “Glamour isn’t everything.”
    “I suppose you met some interesting people out there.”
    “Are you fishing?”
    “No, just – making conversation.”
    She looked disbelievingly at me . “Well, yes. Especially at the hostel in Sydney. Americans, Irish, French, Canadians, and Brits, of course. Plus one guy whose family were farmers in Harare. He was gorgeous, like a young Robert Redford.”
    “A black Robert Redford?”
    “ White farmers. Do you have a problem with colour?” Her eyes narrowed.
    “Not at all. One of my best