The Grasmere Grudge

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘I want a baby as well,’ he insisted. ‘And I get that it’s less urgent for me. I’ve got twenty years to play with – although I don’t much fancy changing nappies when I’m sixty. But – God, Sim – here I am, offering you the best chance you’re ever going to get of achieving your dearest wish, and you’re putting up objections.’

  She smiled helplessly. ‘I told you – I’m a coward. And a bit of a pessimist at heart. You’re right. I’m fantastically lucky to have you. They’re not objections, anyway. Just reservations. Maybe not even that. I am going to marry you, okay? I just want you to be clear as to what you’re getting.’

  He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Cliché, my love. That line’s from a film, if I’m not mistaken. I know exactly what I’ll be getting. I can give you a list of your qualities, and why I love you, if that’ll help.’

  She laughed. ‘No, don’t do that. It’d be embarrassing.’

  At seven they walked to the nearby village pub and drank beer with sandwiches. At nine, they remembered how short the previous night had been and took themselves to Simmy’s narrow bed. ‘The holiday officially ends now,’ said Chris sleepily. ‘Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of our lives.’

  ‘And that’s a cliché, if ever there was one,’ said Simmy.

  Monday arrived in a flash, birds singing outside at four-thirty, and the sun making itself felt an hour later. ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea,’ said Simmy, without moving.

  ‘No, you won’t. We’re not starting that game.’

  ‘But I’m your fiancée now. I exist to serve.’

  ‘Shut up, woman. I can recognise a trap when I see one.’

  ‘Good luck with everything, then,’ she said. ‘Give us a kiss and I’ll see you next weekend.’

  He moaned. ‘We can’t go on like this. You know we can’t. It’s cruel. And don’t say we can do FaceTime or whatever it is now. The very idea freaks me out.’

  ‘And me. We could meet halfway one evening for a meal. Or something. I’ll phone you after work. Or more likely after I’ve been to Beck View.’

  ‘Great! We could have a look at properties in Grasmere.’

  ‘Go, Chris. It was a lovely holiday. Really lovely. And it’s sunny out there, look. Just like Lanzarote.’

  ‘Bye, then,’ he said, and went heavily down the stairs, like a banished schoolboy. It bothered Simmy slightly that she couldn’t be sure whether or not he was play-acting.

  She was at her Windermere shop twenty minutes earlier than necessary, having been unable to get back to sleep after Chris’s departure. It was a forlorn scene with all the cut flowers missing from their usual buckets and pots. She and Bonnie had cleared them all away before closing up for a week. The pot plants looked lonely and neglected, even though Bonnie had been in twice to water them while Simmy was away. The table she used as a counter was bare, because the computer had been removed and all the scattered paperwork tidied up and dealt with.

  That at least could be quickly rectified, and she extracted the laptop from the bag on her shoulder and set it up in its rightful place. If everything went according to plan, there would be a large delivery of summer blooms at any moment. June was a time for scent and colour, but ironically these were so freely available in the countless lovely Cumbrian gardens that fewer people felt moved to come to a florist and buy them. The embellishment of house interiors was lower priority when life was mostly conducted outdoors for the few brief months of summer. The business survived mainly on orders for deliveries of flowers for special occasions in this season of the year.

  The computer needed close attention. The message that no deliveries could be made for the week she’d been away had to be deleted, for a start. Emails had to be carefully sifted and the point made on various sites that Persimmon Petals was fully operational and eager for custom. She was still working on all this when the doorbell pinged, and Bonnie Lawson came in.

  ‘Hiya!’ she chirruped. ‘Hard at it already, then? Gosh, you’ve got a fabulous tan! Was it amazing? Did you get back on time? Are the pot plants okay?’ The questions poured out, giving no opportunity for reply.

  Simmy looked up at her assistant with a smile. The girl was wearing a thin cotton top and cut-off trousers. Her hair was as wild and fair as ever, forming a silvery halo around her face. Her skin showed no sign whatsoever of having been exposed to sunshine. ‘Everything’s fine,’ she said. ‘Did you have a good week?’

  ‘Ben had his last exam on Friday. We were out all day on Saturday. First, we did a boat trip on Windermere, then we went over to Hawkshead on the ferry with the bikes. It rained a bit, though.’ She sighed. ‘It rained nearly every day you were away.’

  ‘So I gathered from my mother and the mud on the roads. Chris and I timed it well.’

  ‘Was it amazing?’ Bonnie asked again.

  ‘There’s a volcano, and the plants are all succulents and cacti, growing in black soil. Hardly any grass. Whole fields of lava, like the surface of the moon or something. A few really nice beaches. Brilliant food, if you get out into the smaller inland places.’

  ‘And Chris liked it, did he?’

  ‘Chris was very happy,’ said Simmy with a secretive smile. ‘Everything went perfectly, in fact.’

  Bonnie was giving her a searching look when the doorbell pinged again and the first customer of the day arrived.

  Five customers later, it was past twelve o’clock. The expected wholesale delivery had given them more work to do than was comfortable, arranging the new flowers for maximum effect. Bonnie tackled the window display and Simmy found two new orders on the computer. ‘A birthday in Bowness, and a baby in … gosh, somewhere called Banerigg – if that’s how you say it. Where on earth’s that?’

  ‘I think it’s on the edge of Grasmere – the lake, not the town. You’ll need the map.’

  ‘Why are they sending me all the way up there?’ grumbled Simmy. ‘They should use a closer florist, from Ambleside, if not Grasmere. It’s nine miles from here.’

  ‘Reputation,’ said Bonnie. ‘Did you say “baby”?’

  ‘I did. The message reads, “Welcome to little Lucy May Penrose, from Great-Granny Sarah.” And there’s to be baby’s breath, pink rosebuds and honeysuckle. I guess Great-Granny Sarah just picked me out with a pin on Google. She lives in Bristol, so she probably doesn’t know much about the geography up here.’

  ‘I hope she didn’t prick her screen,’ giggled Bonnie. ‘When does she want it?’

  ‘As soon as possible. I’ll have to take it this evening, I suppose. But I said I’d call in on my parents.’

  ‘It’s really not far,’ Bonnie assured her. ‘Look – here it is.’ She proffered her all-purpose smartphone, showing a map. ‘It’s on the 591. But there are hardly any houses there.’

  ‘There’s a postcode. I expect I’ll find it. I’ll have to tell my mum I won’t be seeing them this evening, after all.’

  ‘It’s pretty nice up there,’ Bonnie encouraged. ‘It’ll be a nice little jaunt for you.’

  Not for another twenty minutes did Simmy remember that she had suggested to Chris that they meet one evening in Grasmere. Was this too soon in the week? Should she let him know she’d be there and see what he said? It seemed silly, and even a bit tight-lipped, not to say anything. But the prospect of rerunning the same conversations again so soon made her feel pressured and slightly panicked. She needed some time to think before that could be readily faced.

  Only three more people came in for flowers during the afternoon, giving Simmy time to assemble the bouquet for little Lucy May. ‘Lucky I’ve got some baby’s breath,’ she muttered. ‘even if it is more than a week old.’

  ‘It lasts for ages,’ said Bonnie. ‘That’s why we didn’t throw it out before you went away.’

  The girl had been looking at her phone even more than usual in the past hour or so. ‘Are you waiting for something?’ asked Simmy.

  ‘It’s Ben’s driving test at two forty-five. He must be finishing any time now.’<
br />
  ‘Oh, drat! I forgot all about it. I was going to send him a good luck message.’

  ‘He didn’t want to make a thing of it. I’m surprised he told you.’

  ‘I got a text yesterday saying welcome home. He mentioned it then.’

  ‘He’s dead scared, you know. It’s quite funny, really, when he’s been fine all through the A-levels. I can understand, though. This is so much more physical. And he’s got to take other people into account and keep his eyes open the whole time. I mean – he’s got to really concentrate.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be a problem, surely?’

  ‘He overthinks things. He watches what a lorry’s doing a hundred yards up the road and misses the cyclist that’s only inches away. And people keep comparing him to Sheldon Cooper, which isn’t very helpful.’

  Simmy refrained from admitting that Christopher Henderson had been one of those people. ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine. And if he fails this time, he can do it again in a month or two, can’t he?’

  ‘Ben doesn’t handle failure very well,’ said Bonnie regretfully. ‘Oh! Here it is … Failed. Just one word. Damn it.’ She slumped against the wall at the back of the shop and stared at her screen. ‘That’s such a downer. What if it’s an omen for his exam results? That’s what Corinne’s going to think. She always says he’s got too many big ideas for his own good.’

  ‘It’s not an omen. That’s ridiculous. Most people fail first time. It was probably some tiny little technicality. You know what they’re like, these examiners.’

  ‘Not really. What am I going to say to him?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Simmy, who genuinely had no idea what the best response would be.

  While she was still thinking about the unprecedented word ‘failure’ used in conjunction with Ben Harkness, Simmy’s own phone tinkled to indicate a text from Chris. We need to buy a ring. Always nice jewellery at the auction, of course. You should be here on Saturday.

  There was a pleasing subtlety to it that made her smile and feel more confident. I might close at 12 and get there for 1, if that’s any good, she replied.

  Better than nothing, he flashed back.

  ‘This must stop,’ she ordained, talking to both Bonnie and herself. ‘Texting at work is a very bad habit.’

  ‘Better than waffling on and on like some people do,’ said Bonnie. ‘I was kept waiting well over five minutes in a shop last week, in Bowness, while the girl chatted to some friend on her phone. It was a disgrace. I was just going to walk out when she finally finished.’

  ‘Lucky it wasn’t my mum. She’d have started throwing things.’

  They both laughed – all the more so because the image was not so very far from reality.

  ‘What did you say to him, then?’ Simmy asked a few minutes later.

  ‘I said it wasn’t a disaster, and I loved him just the same.’ Bonnie and Ben were both delightfully unselfconscious about how they felt towards each other.

  Simmy wished she could be the same, but strongly suspected that it was already too late. ‘Perfect,’ she said, with a smile.

  The bouquet for Lucy May was a work of art, though she said so herself. Delicate, fresh, distinctive – it seemed to symbolise all that was wonderful in a new baby. ‘Wow!’ said Bonnie. ‘You’re brilliant at this job, you know. It’s absolutely gorgeous.’

  They closed up at five and, having made a quick call to her mother, Simmy carried the flowers to her car, parked several streets away. The traffic was heavy between Windermere and Ambleside but thinned out after that. Her satnav directed her to an isolated little house up a short but steep track off the main road where it ran alongside the small lake of Grasmere. Five minutes before arriving, she thought she heard a warble from the phone in her bag, but the focus required for getting to the right place made her instantly forget about it.

  She left the car on a small rough patch beside a stone wall and got out with the flowers. She could hear the baby crying through the closed front door. She had to ring three times before anybody came. Then a tear-stained woman in her thirties flung it open, holding a near-naked infant tight against her chest – which did little to stifle the cries. She took in Simmy and the flowers with total lack of comprehension.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Take her, before I murder the little beast.’

  Chapter Four

  The baby was lighter than most dolls that Simmy had handled. The red face was screwed up in distress and the mouth wide open, the tongue vibrating with the screams. But the shock of being handed to somebody new quickly arrested the complaints. The mouth closed and the eyes half-opened. ‘Hello,’ said Simmy. Something unsettling was being stirred up inside her. ‘What’s all the fuss about, eh?’

  Somehow the flowers had been exchanged for the baby, the mother holding them to her chest in evident pleasure. That at least gave Simmy some reassurance. She had once had her creative effort thrown violently across a farmyard. ‘How old is she?’ she asked.

  ‘Nearly three weeks. It feels like three years.’

  Simmy looked into the little face, searching for signs of a person who could be accessed and engaged in some sort of interaction. ‘You must be Lucy May,’ she crooned. ‘Isn’t that a nice name? Why are you being so mean to poor Mummy, then?’

  ‘Listen to you!’ scoffed the woman, who seemed to be close to collapse. ‘Bring her in, will you? I’ve got to sit down.’

  They went into a long room with a kitchen at one end and big pine table at the other. There was a carry-chair on the table – a heavy-looking thing with a handle and a sort of nest for the baby. Simmy remembered that she and Tony had bought one for their baby, but never had occasion to use it. She couldn’t even remember what they were rightly called. What did hit her with a thud was the fact that this was the first baby she had held since her own stillborn Edith. The similarities were outweighing the differences, despite the jerky movements of this one, and the living warmth of her.

  ‘Sorry,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll take her now. You caught us at a bad moment.’

  ‘No problem.’ The prospect of having to relinquish the little thing was appalling. ‘I’ll hold her for a bit, if that helps.’

  ‘You can keep her for all I care. She seems to like you better, anyway.’

  Simmy could think of nothing to say. She was totally unequipped to console, advise or even commiserate. Anything she might have heard about the trials of early parenthood flew out of her head. Babies screamed and kept you awake at night. Your nipples got sore. That was pretty much it. A featherweight scrap of life could turn the world upside down. Could and did, evidently.

  ‘I should have hired a nanny, like my grandmother did,’ said the woman. ‘Or left her in a nursery after the first week, like American women do. As it is, I can’t see how we’re going to get through without one of us going mad or being killed. I even thought I could manage a bit of painting while she’s asleep. What a joke!’

  ‘Are you on your own?’ Simmy asked cautiously.

  ‘What? Oh – no, not exactly. I’ve got a husband, if that’s what you mean. But he had to go back to work last week and doesn’t get home till nine or later. That’s when everything went wrong, really. At least I could give her to him some of the time. Now I can’t even get to the loo without her bawling blue murder.’

  ‘She’s not ill, though, is she?’

  ‘Apparently not. She’s not growing much, but she’s not losing weight. The health visitor is obsessed with all that, which makes everything worse. I cried all over her on Friday. Looks very bad in my notes. They’ve probably got a black mark against me, and next thing I know, Social Services’ll be coming round.’

  ‘I imagine crying on them is fairly usual, actually.’ Simmy had cried quite a lot herself, but with far greater reason. ‘Isn’t there somebody who could come and lend a hand – friend or relation or neighbour, or someone? It must be grim doing it all by yourself.’

  ‘I’ve got a mother, two sisters, a rather batty friend in Amble
side and about twelve others around the country. Not one of them seems to be available. My mother was going to come, but she’s got shingles. I thought a summer baby would be so easy – just park her out in the sunshine, or go for walks by the lake, and everything would be idyllic. Instead, she won’t ever let me put her down. I can’t do anything.’

  ‘Have you got one of those sling things, where you tie her onto your front?’

  The woman blinked at her. ‘No. That never occurred to me. How stupid. She’d probably scream in that as well, but at least I’d have my hands free.’

  ‘You can probably order them on Amazon. It’d arrive in a day or two.’ The relief at having found a helpful thing to say was enormous.

  ‘Have you ever used one? They look horribly complicated.’

  Simmy shook her head. She laid the baby on her thighs, still watching the little face for signs of protest. Gently, she swung her legs from side to side in an instinctive rhythm.

  ‘I should hate you,’ said the woman. ‘Look how quiet and happy she is now.’

  ‘She was just reacting to your stress levels, I suppose. She’s still pretty much part of you, isn’t she?’

  The woman sniffed. ‘You think?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s all very mysterious. Who knows what it’s like to be her?’

  ‘I never stopped to wonder. It’s all been so … chaotic. Nothing’s gone to plan, right from the start. She was eight days early, and I was nowhere near ready. Scott’s in the middle of something crucial at work. It’s really not his fault. He keeps saying their whole reputation is at stake. I was meant to be helping, but that all went out of the window when Madam arrived early. And he’s got other kids, so he can’t see why I’m in such a meltdown over it. I think I’m basically too old for a first baby. All my instincts have dried up, and I’ve got no idea what I’m meant to be doing. Even feeding her is painful, and she’s obviously not getting enough.’