One thing Hartdale does have is a whispered secret; a nasty rumour that makes mum's shush their children when they mention it. It's pathetic, most agree, that the biggest thing that ever happened in Hartdale is the one thing the town wants to forget
Fate
Love is the language of the heart all over the world, but especially in the small western towns. Hartdale is no exception. Love drifts through the houses in heartfelt hugs and kisses; it floats across flower-strewn meadows and shimmering lakes.
Gossip is the second language in small western towns. Hartdale is no exception. Gossip drifts through the schoolyards in whispers and giggles and seeps through the coffee shops and steepled churches. Gossip and love makes the world go round in Hartdale.
Hartdale is a tiny, little place, only twelve thousand habitants or so. Under sixteens declare the town dead. And they're kind of right. Hartsdale's only connection to a motorway or main road is not concrete, but two lanes made from dirt and dust. Litter from residents rest dormant on the roads verge. No fast food places will ever open because of the link. There will not even be a service station with a shop and self-service gasoline pumps with slots for credit cards.
The biggest business in Hartdale, the post office, is the only reason Hartdale is even a legal township. There are no shopping centres in Hartdale. You have to take two buses all the way over to Yorkshire for that. Children who grow up in Hartdale do not have many opportunities. Some of them quit school early so they can help their parents' farm. A few manage to go away to college. But most of them stay there. Get a job. Get married. Get older. Life does not much change much in Hartdale.
One thing Hartdale does have is a whispered secret; a nasty rumour that makes mum's shush their children when they mention it. It's pathetic, most agree, that the biggest thing that ever happened in Hartdale is the one thing the town wants to forget. People say that once, a terrible thing happened and lives were lost. That's all the townspeople will tell strangers. And they tell all those who ask. Maybe, just maybe, the wounds that still run deep will heal eventually. At least everyone hopes they will. Because people are people, with hopes and dreams and faith in their hearts and stars in their eyes, even those born in Hartdale.
Love is the language of the heart all over the world, but especially in the small western towns. Hartdale is no exception. Love drifts through the houses in heartfelt hugs and kisses; it floats across flower-strewn meadows and shimmering lakes.
Gossip is the second language in small western towns. Hartdale is no exception. Gossip drifts through the schoolyards in whispers and giggles and seeps through the coffee shops and steepled churches. Gossip and love makes the world go round in Hartdale.
Hartdale is a tiny, little place, only twelve thousand habitants or so. Under sixteens declare the town dead. And they're kind of right. Hartsdale's only connection to a motorway or main road is not concrete, but two lanes made from dirt and dust. Litter from residents rest dormant on the roads verge. No fast food places will ever open because of the link. There will not even be a service station with a shop and self-service gasoline pumps with slots for credit cards.
The biggest business in Hartdale, the post office, is the only reason Hartdale is even a legal township. There are no shopping centres in Hartdale. You have to take two buses all the way over to Yorkshire for that. Children who grow up in Hartdale do not have many opportunities. Some of them quit school early so they can help their parents' farm. A few manage to go away to college. But most of them stay there. Get a job. Get married. Get older. Life does not much change much in Hartdale.
One thing Hartdale does have is a whispered secret; a nasty rumour that makes mum's shush their children when they mention it. It's pathetic, most agree, that the biggest thing that ever happened in Hartdale is the one thing the town wants to forget. People say that once, a terrible thing happened and lives were lost. That's all the townspeople will tell strangers. And they tell all those who ask. Maybe, just maybe, the wounds that still run deep will heal eventually. At least everyone hopes they will. Because people are people, with hopes and dreams and faith in their hearts and stars in their eyes, even those born in Hartdale.
