by Rebecca Tope
But her mother evidently had other ideas. From the first moment, she fired questions at the invalid, demanding decisions and preferences. ‘Are you hungry? Do you want a duvet or blankets? Is it warm enough? Have they given you painkillers? Is there a district nurse coming? Was it snowing much in Barrow? Did you hear the news about that earthquake in Syria? Do you need us to go to Troutbeck for anything? Are you going to want visitors here?’ On and on they went, with pauses for replies that only seemed to spawn further enquiries.
‘Stop it, Ange,’ begged Russell. ‘All this can wait for tomorrow. She’s tired.’
‘Yes. All right. Is the light all right for you in here? Will you want to read? Should I put a chamber pot under the bed?’
This last brought exasperation to the fore. ‘How do you think I’d manage that?’ Simmy snapped. ‘That’s a ludicrous idea.’
Angie blinked. ‘I have very little experience of crutches,’ she said tightly. ‘I don’t know what’s possible.’
‘Sorry, Mum. Neither do I. But it’s not too bad, actually. I can swing along quite well on the level. The downstairs loo’s going to be fine.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look – I can sit in the kitchen or the living room, and keep out of your way, until bedtime. You don’t have to fuss round me. I might get visitors, I suppose. I didn’t finish doing my Christmas cards, and all my presents are at the house.’
All was an exaggeration. Being part of such a small family meant that she only bought gifts for her parents and Melanie. She had intended to get something for Ben, too, but could not think what he’d want, apart from computer games.
‘If it snows in the night, they’ll have to stay there, won’t they. Lucky I don’t have a pet to worry about,’ she added.
She felt jangled and cross. Far from making her feel like a cossetted child, her mother was relying on her for direction and information. And the worst of it was that she knew she was being unreasonable in her expectations. Angie really did have no idea what she should do. Russell was no better. Having performed his duty as a taxi driver, he appeared to think his work was done. He threw sympathetic looks at her and then disappeared into the kitchen.
Eventually, they settled down. Simmy lowered herself into a big comfortable chair that was always well supplied with cushions, and mainly used by the cat. Her fellow invalid was still in his nest in the hall, but had progressed to taking himself outside without an escort. His gait was wobbly and he’d got thinner, but there was no suggestion that he was in any pain.
Angie made a pot of tea and then dug a large container of frozen soup out of the freezer. ‘Beef and vegetable,’ she announced. ‘I made it months ago. It’s more like a stew, really. My mother always did it for winter evenings.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Simmy had cheerful memories of her grandmother’s soup-making skills. She had a variety for every occasion, ranging from crab and sweetcorn to an amazing minestrone. Angie’s talents were unfortunately very inferior, despite her best efforts to maintain the tradition. Her beef stew somehow never worked, for reasons nobody could identify.
They were still eating it when the doorbell rang. Russell went to answer it, and came back followed by two young people. ‘Visitors!’ he announced, as if it was the best thing that could possibly happen.
‘Hi, Simmy,’ said Melanie. ‘We had no idea you’d be home already. We came to see if we could do anything to help get ready for you.’
Ben stared at her, making no effort to hide his curiosity. ‘You look okay,’ he concluded.
‘You should see the bruises,’ she laughed, feeling suddenly buoyant. His eager step forward made her laugh even more. ‘No, no. I’m not going to show you. It wouldn’t be ladylike, given the places where they’re worst.’
‘I wanted to visit you in Barrow,’ he said urgently. ‘But there was no way I could. I’m not meant to be here now. It’s the dress rehearsal for the play tonight.’
‘Good God! What time does it start?’
‘Seven-thirty. It’ll be okay if I’m there an hour ahead. Even a bit less than that. The costume isn’t very complicated.’
‘He wears a tunic,’ Melanie told them. ‘I thought it should be a toga, but got that all wrong – didn’t I?’
‘Togas were only for the top people. I’m a prisoner. The tunic ought to be torn and dirty, really, but it’s okay.’
‘I had a look at the play,’ Melanie confided. ‘It says Ferrovius is powerful with a big nose and a thick neck. Not sure they got the casting quite right.’ She poked Ben’s chest, and then waved a finger at his narrow adolescent neck.
‘It’ll be all in the acting,’ said Simmy loyally.
‘It’s a rubbish play, actually. Totally anti-Christian. There’ll be complaints.’ Melanie rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know what they’re thinking of, putting that on at Christmas.’
‘What?’ Angie gave up trying to follow the thread. ‘What play is it then?’
‘Androcles and the Lion,’ said Ben. ‘It’s not very PC – but it makes you think. Any proper Christian would find it easy to argue their case. It’s pretty literal-minded. I think it was an inspired choice. And it’s quite funny. I do a take-off of a smarmy vicar, talking about washing souls and being meek and gentle. It’s all a joke, see. My character is really just a lump of brawn, trying to behave the way Jesus says he should.’
‘And does it work?’ asked Angie.
‘You’ll have to come along and see. There’s still a few tickets for tomorrow.’
‘I’ve got one for Saturday,’ Simmy remembered. ‘I was looking forward to it.’
‘A thing happened today,’ Melanie interrupted. ‘I was going to get your mum and dad to tell you about it tomorrow.’
‘What sort of a thing?’
‘My gran had a visitor. Penny Clark – that was. Nancy’s sister. What happened – Gran phoned her, just for a chat about old times. All that talk on Sunday stirred her up, and she thought she should get in touch with some old mates. So Penny decided to pay a visit. She got a taxi all the way, because she can’t drive any more, and didn’t want her husband hanging about. She’s all in pieces because of the murder, and wanted to talk to someone about it. Her husband just keeps telling her not to think about it. Typical farmer. They never care much about death, do they?’
Nobody took her up on this observation, so she carried on. ‘Penny knows the Joseph girls, a bit. Knew them, anyway. My gran had the sense to sound her out, after all our questions about them. She’s not daft, my gran. She worked out that there’s some sort of mystery about them. And she’s no prude, either. Penny told her all about that Gwen woman, taking up with Nicola Joseph, years ago, and ruling her life ever since. She’s seen them about – they live up her way, and everybody talks about them.’
‘They came to see me yesterday,’ Simmy said. ‘I thought Gwen was nice. She brought me some bedsocks. Nicola says she often visits people in hospital.’
‘What if she does?’ Melanie dismissed. ‘That’s not the point.’
‘Isn’t it? What does she do for a job?’
‘College lecturer,’ said Melanie promptly. Unlike Simmy, Melanie always knew immediately what a person did for a living. The information seemed to arrive telepathically sometimes. ‘Psychology, at Carlisle.’
‘And Nicola?’ Simmy felt ashamed that she still had no idea of the answer.
‘Nothing much, as far as I know. She’s on the board of governors at the primary school where she lives, and she volunteers for things. Samaritans or something. And they’ve got a real showpiece of a house, so I guess she does a lot of dusting.’
Something about her impression of Nicola Joseph made this all too credible to Simmy. Angie Straw laughed scornfully and Ben cleared his throat.
‘This is third-hand material,’ he said. ‘It’s not really very useful.’
‘It’s a bit weird that somebody wanting to talk about her murdered sister should end up talking about the Joseph family,’ said Simmy slowly. ‘Even if your gran did steer
the conversation that way. What about Nancy? She’s at the heart of all this. She’s the victim.’ The word tasted bitter in her mouth; bitter and spiky.
‘I get the idea there wasn’t actually much to say about her. Nasty Nancy has finally done something good by getting herself killed, according to Gran. Penny admits she didn’t like her much after they were sent to different schools. Nancy was always boasting and throwing her weight about. So now Penny feels guilty. But Gran wasn’t having any of that and told her she had nothing to feel bad about.’
‘Did that do any good?’ asked Russell, who had not appeared to be following the conversation very closely. ‘It’s bad when somebody you dislike dies. You can’t help feeling you did it, somehow.’
‘You and Gwen should get together,’ said Simmy. ‘You could talk psychology at each other.’ She said it lightly, with a smile, but the others took it as a sign that she was not her usual self. For her, it came over as rather a sharp remark.
‘Enough of this,’ said Angie. ‘You’ll be late, Ben. To be honest, I’m surprised they’re going ahead with the play, when there’s all this snow about.’
‘Too late to cancel,’ he shrugged. ‘And it’s not going to be so bad, after all. Latest I heard, it’s mostly to the east of here. Over the high ground, as usual.’
‘What about tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow’s going to be okay. Eight degrees and some sunshine. It’ll all melt by lunchtime.’
Simmy stared at him. ‘So I needn’t have come home today after all?’
Angie gave a muffled yelp. ‘Aren’t you glad you came today?’
‘Yes, of course. But all that panic and bustle for nothing. It seems stupid.’
Melanie fixed her single eye on her. ‘You’re in a funny mood,’ she said. ‘Does it hurt somewhere?’
‘Actually, no, not much. It’s not really very bad. Some of the bruises are sore, still. I suppose I’ve been lucky.’
‘What about the shop?’ Melanie asked. ‘Are you really staying closed until the new year?’
‘I’ll have to, I think.’ She paused, choosing her words slowly. ‘You know that potter chap – Ninian?’
Melanie nodded. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s offered to cover for me in the shop, if need be. Obviously I said I’d have to talk it over with you, and that you might be able to manage. I think I’ll be almost better by then anyway.’
She could see Melanie wrestling with conflicting reactions. ‘He’d have no idea,’ she began. ‘He’d be worse than useless.’ Then she frowned. ‘But I can’t miss any college work. Term starts on the 10th. I can’t be full-time after that.’
‘That gives us more than three weeks,’ said Simmy, with confidence. ‘Plenty of time to work out what we’ll do.’
‘Well, I’ve coped so far, haven’t I? Since Sunday I’ve done everything required, without you even asking. I put a sign up saying we’re away until further notice. Told the delivery people, and put a stop on new orders. There’s a lot of wastage,’ she finished sadly. Melanie grieved for every flower they threw away. ‘I should go again tomorrow, and tidy up some more.’
‘Thanks, Mel. You’ve been really good.’
Melanie wriggled self-consciously. ‘No problem,’ she mumbled.
‘Tell the Moxo man, then – about Nancy Clark’s sister,’ Ben urged her. ‘He’s sure to come and see you sometime soon.’
‘I thought you had a direct line to him yourself,’ she said. ‘Why do I have to do it?’
‘Because you’re the adult. He takes more notice of you.’
‘No, Ben. That’s not true. He was hugely impressed by your dossier thing. He said so.’
‘Well he never told me.’
‘He will. He’s not too good at that sort of thing, probably.’
‘It’s all daughters and sisters, isn’t it,’ Ben changed the subject. ‘Have you noticed? People who know a whole lot about each other – or ought to. All those women, with barely a man in the story at all.’
‘Except Mr Kitchener. He’s about the only one I haven’t seen in the past week.’ She thought about the sad little man and the police suspicions around him. ‘I wonder if he’s all right.’
Ben snorted. ‘Lying low, if you ask me.’
Russell gave a soft clap. ‘Well done, my boy!’
They all looked at him in confusion. ‘What did I do?’ asked Ben.
‘Used the right word. I always want to scream whenever I hear someone say “laying low” or “lay of the land”. You got it right. Hallelujah!’
‘You’re just a pedant,’ Simmy told him fondly. Her spirits lifted like someone removing a damp smelly blanket and letting in the light and fresh air. ‘And I’m so pleased to be here with you.’
Ben was considering the grammatical point. ‘If you say “lay of the land”, does that suggest a creator – someone who laid it out? Is that why Americans use it, because they’re so religious?’
Russell responded with delight. ‘I think not. I think it’s wrong, even then. But it’s a most intriguing point you raise.’
‘Oh, you two,’ sighed Simmy with a smile. But she still retained a picture of Mr Kitchener, who had seemed so grateful to her for the alibi, but who then might have pitched her into the beck and tried to kill her.
Chapter Twenty
The evening passed slowly, with a low-level tension affecting all three of them in different ways. Angie continued to ask questions sporadically. ‘When do you think you’ll be able to go outside? Should we tell the police that you’re home? Does anybody really think there’s a connection between the murder of that Clark woman and you being assaulted?’ Simmy did her best to answer, even though she and her father were trying to settle down with an old DVD of On Golden Pond. It always made them both cry, which was something they enjoyed. The scratchy father-daughter relationship in the film made them feel complacent. Angie always made some comment about not being in the least like Katharine Hepburn, despite what people might think. She had lost count of the times, throughout her life, in which she had been compared to the film star. Russell made no secret of the fact that the likeness had been one of her major attractions for him, back in the 1970s.
‘I’d much rather remind you of Lauren Bacall,’ she would insist. ‘Or Faye Dunaway, even better.’
‘They’re all tall and wisecracking,’ he would concede. ‘You’re just a glorious mixture of all three.’
And all considerably older than Angie, Simmy would think. Stars from a time long gone, just as her father’s favourite music groups had either died or withered into unrecognisable old age. Christine McVie was over seventy, for heaven’s sake. It was becoming more apparent with every year that her father essentially lived in the past. His contributions to the running of the B&B centred largely on lengthy breakfast homilies about the history of the southern Lake District, and quite a lot of the shopping.
Which meant he took an oddly peripheral interest in Simmy and her activities. He almost never visited her shop. He had dodged the darker implications of her current injuries, and only listened to conversations for their accurate use of grammar. She thought about all this as they watched the movie, and realised how restful it made him. Russell Straw seldom asked questions. He let most things flow quietly past him without feeling that anything was being demanded of him. The kind of man that many women despaired of as a husband, but which made a surprisingly good father.
Bedtime involved some complications which did little for anybody’s temper. Russell made himself scarce, fussing over his cat and making milky drinks. Angie hovered irritatingly while Simmy went to the downstairs loo, washing minimally and cleaning her teeth in the small handbasin. The bed was a narrow fold-up affair, kept for emergencies in a cupboard. It sagged under Simmy’s modest weight, and squealed every time she moved.
But in the end she slept soundly, worn out by the trials of the day. The padding around her pelvis sank into a hollow part of the ancient mattress as if it had been specially made t
o fit. Her damaged head was similarly cradled by a feather-filled pillow that Angie said had belonged to her grandmother – which made it well over a century old. Few things ever got thrown away in the Straw household.
In the morning, Angie brought her a substantial breakfast, with no prior consultation. The relief of this gave Simmy considerable optimism for the day to come. December 18th, a week before Christmas Day, was going to be lazy, warm, and full of simple tasks like helping to make mince pies or stringing up cards that had come in their dozens from friends and one-time B&B guests. ‘It’s amazing, the number of people who remember the address and send a card,’ said Angie. ‘I never know where to put them all.’
‘I’ll get up at ten,’ said Simmy, feeling virtuous. Some people in her situation would stay in bed all day. Except it wasn’t the sort of bed you could stay in, once you were awake. It had no headboard, for a start, so sitting up was impossible. And it was narrow, so you couldn’t spread sideways and strew newspapers across it. When her bladder demanded a trip to the lavatory at nine, with all the effort involved with the crutches, she realised she’d be better in the kitchen, rather than wallowing in the rickety old bed.
And that meant putting some clothes on. She didn’t want a repeat of the previous day, when she had entertained visitors in her pyjamas. For the first time in many days, she had to think properly about clothes. Only the baggiest of garments would be possible. Her usual jeans wouldn’t fasten around the dressings and any sort of tight top would hurt her bruises. ‘Have you got a tracksuit or something that I could borrow?’ she asked her mother.
Angie considered. Accustomed to finding spare clothes for children, it was much less usual to have to provide them for adults. People did return from their fell walks covered in mud, from time to time, but they generally had something with them to change into. And if they didn’t, they were too self-conscious and fussy to accept anything Angie might have to offer. ‘I might find something,’ she said. ‘I’ll go and look.’
