The Path to the Lake

by Susan Sallis

  I passed the small boat store where the local yachts were stored, their long masts sticking out from the wall, making the whole thing look like a gigantic pincushion. A breeze came from the south-west and halyards clanked. Someone had said once that man and sea made the perfect orchestra.

  Someone.

  I stopped in my tracks, shocked into stillness by that word. Someone. Was that what it had come to? I could not use his name? It was David. His name was David.

  And as if at a signal, from the bald crown of Becket’s Hill came a man, running, slipping, sliding down towards the path. His sweatshirt had a hood which was up, and too-long sleeves dangled over his hands. He must have had feet because I could hear them slithering on the dew-wet grass.

  I was a long way ahead of him and on the flat, too, but I ran like the wind, past the cemetery and then away from the sea and into the village. And as I started up the hill the church bells rang out. They were reassurance. I stopped trying to run, and hung on to the wall at the first of the hairpin bends. There was no one in a hoodie behind me. A cyclist was making for one of the half-a-dozen churches; a woman emerged from one of the dozen pubs and threw a bucket of water along the pavement, and then tackled it with a broom. I started to walk slowly home.

  November the fifth came and went. Mrs Hardy reported ‘fine shenanigans’ on the summit of the Tump. ‘We all got up in the top storey of the home and had a grand view. Old Jinx said as how your dad would’ve loved it. Remember they was good pals?’

  Of course I remembered. But I mustn’t remember. Just as I mustn’t remember Someone. When I remembered Someone it was as if I summoned him. I certainly did not want to summon my father-in-law . . . who was most definitely not my dad. I could remember my dad. He did not actually unbuckle his belt to teach me stuff, simply because he did not wear a belt. He wore braces and a tie, and reminded me often that he was a white-collar worker. But that did not stop him beating me with whatever was to hand.

  I said, ‘How is Jinx?’

  ‘Not so bad that he couldn’t enjoy the fireworks and the bonfire.’ She paused, then added, ‘You could pop in and see him sometimes. P’raps.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d want to see me.’

  Jinx, or Mr John Jinks to give him his proper name, possibly knew everything there was to know about David and me. He and my father-in-law had been good friends, especially after they both moved into Tall Trees. I was pretty certain that my father-in-law had told him . . . most things.

  And it was obvious that Jinx had told Mrs Hardy he did not want to see me. She shook her head. ‘Silly old fool, he is. You could break through that if you was to try.’

  I said nothing. After a bit she stood up to go. She never stayed long, but she never missed a weekday. I hadn’t noticed the days of the week before she started to come in; now weekends were barren days.

  As if she could follow my train of thought she said, ‘The new Harry Potter’s on at the cinema. Fancy us going on Saturday? They got a matinee so we could both be home before dark. And I’ll be in good time for Hardy’s tea. What d’you say?’

  Saturday was the anniversary. Had she remembered?

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘See you down there. Make it by two o’clock. There’ll be a queue.’

  ‘Yes. OK.’ I felt a little thrill of excitement.

  It was great. The queue was very long, but it was mainly composed of children, and I didn’t know anyone at all. I was surrounded by noisy life that demanded nothing of me. I had taught part-time at a school twenty-five miles away; I never ran into any of my old pupils.

  Mrs Hardy made a face. ‘Forgot how rowdy they are. Manners they certainly ain’t got.’

  I laughed delightedly, and she raised her bushy brows. ‘I ’aven’t seen you laugh for over a year.’ So she had remembered. I glanced at my watch; it would have been a year ten minutes ago, as we joined the queue. That was why she had chosen a matinee performance. Mr Hardy would not have missed his Saturday tea if we’d gone later. The matinee would bridge the actual time of the accident.

  We settled in our seats; the noise was now excruciating, and there was a great deal of movement within our row as best friends demanded to be next to each other. Big cartons of popcorn were fitted into holders on the arms of the seats. We could not imagine how we would be able to hear the film. And then the lights went down and with them went the voices. It was as I remembered from childhood. The magic still worked; they were rapt.

  So were we. I hadn’t expected to feel entranced, I had thought that objectively I might enjoy the film for the unexpectedly traditional boarding-school atmosphere bound up with the fantasy element. There was no such analytical approach to this film; you either went with it helter-skelter, not knowing whether it was good, bad or indifferent; or you stayed outside. Mrs Hardy and I went with it willingly, in my case eagerly. Already I planned to go to the bookshop before it closed and buy a copy of this particular story. Something was happening the whole time, and you had to hang on to find out what it was.

  When we emerged on to the shallow steps of the cinema I could not believe it was still just about daylight. I thanked Mrs Hardy profusely, and she blushed and blurted that she would have loved to ask me to tea, but Saturday night tea was Hardy’s favourite, and they always had it by the fire with the football highlights on the television. I leaned forward suddenly and pecked her cheek – and then instantly regretted it, as she put her hand up as if I had slapped her. I said quickly, ‘I want to go to the bookshop anyway. Then I’ll start reading while I have my tea by the fire, too.’ We walked back together as far as Smith’s. I would have loved to have talked about the film, but she told me what she was cooking for tea and then asked me what I was having.

  ‘I don’t know . . .’

  ‘Promise me you’ll have a boiled egg. I do remember you saying to your dad once, that your favourite tea was boiled egg. Promise.’

  I promised. ‘He was my father-in-law, not my dad,’ I went on. ‘My dad would have given me what for if I’d wanted something cooked for Saturday tea.’

  I laughed as I said it, but she was silent.

  When we parted outside the shop she said soberly, ‘You en’t ’ad it easy, ’ave you, Mrs Venables?’

  ‘I’ve had it very good a lot of the time. Like most people, I expect.’

  But I knew she did not agree with me. It seemed to me that she was happy all the time. Her contentment was built around a good fire and sausage and mash. Perhaps she had never known the sort of happiness I had had, and perhaps hers was the right sort; the only sort. I was determined to make my own contentment as good as hers. I grinned. ‘Looking forward to the boiled egg!’ I called as she crossed the road and turned to wave. It was the best of beginnings.

  I got the book and laboured up the vertical hill to the start of the hairpins. Then held on to the wall as usual to get breath for the next three stretches. Ahead of me a woman in the navy-blue uniform of Tall Trees nursing home was doing the same thing, and with better reason because she was pushing a wheelchair. I caught up with her. ‘Let me give you a hand,’ I offered. ‘These hills were not made for wheelchairs.’

  She had no breath to thank me, but nodded and smiled. We took a handle each and started to shove. Even with two pairs of hands and arms it was hard work. I panted something about the weather and she said, ‘Typical November.’ And that was it until we reached the Tump, where the road levelled off to the nursing home. Then she gasped a laugh and put a hand to her side.

  ‘Really good of you. I don’t think I could have managed that today. We went for a posh tea in the hotel, and I ate too much. You told me I was eating too much, didn’t you, Jinx?’

  I stared down at the back of a head, capped and swathed in scarves. I had not recognized him, and he had not recognized me. He said in that blunt, aggressive way he had, ‘Well. You were. Weren’t you?’

  No, he didn’t realize it was me. I’d only said a few words. This was the opportunity Mrs Hardy had
mooted: a chance to make friends with Old Jinx again.

  I tried for a sympathetic chuckle; he’d never recognize a chuckle. I so rarely indulged in them.

  He grunted, ‘Let’s push on, nurse. It’s cold on my chest.’

  I put my gloved hand over hers and smiled, and she said, ‘Good night, Mrs Venables. Good to see you out and about again.’

  I froze where I was, half-turned to go through the gate. Jinx twisted in his chair and tried to see me through the November murk. He said loudly, ‘A year ago today, wasn’t it? Long enough to ease your conscience?’

  I said nothing. The nurse said, ‘Stop sounding like a crabby old man, Jinx! We’ve had a lovely afternoon – don’t spoil it!’

  Then they were gone.

  I was determined I wasn’t going to let anything spoil my lovely afternoon, either. I boiled my egg, made up the fire and opened my new book. Then I switched on the television and watched some of the sporting highlights. Then I washed up, and had a shower, and got ready for bed, and tried the book again. Then I banked the fire, and put the guard round, and went to bed, and lay rigidly between the sheets for hours. Then I got up and put on a lot of clothes, and left the house. The clock in the hall showed three twenty.

  I ran.

  Sunday was long and uneventful. I tried to spend most of it in the garden. The year’s neglect had not yet been made up, and I was still at the stage of pulling out the old rubbish and composting it. The thick stems of golden rod were tougher than the hollyhocks. Two echiums standing sentinel either side of the bottom arch were still upright, and I marvelled at their intricate design, which enabled bees to use them so efficiently. They were like high-rise flats, economic of ground space yet providing accommodation for hundreds. I wondered why they had proved unpopular with humans when bees loved them so much. And then I thought of the twin towers in New York, and the horror of being trapped in any high-rise accommodation. And at last I gained enough determination to cut off the fifteen-foot-high plants and lay them in the trench next to the kidney beans. Then I drew off my gloves and put them in the trug, gathered the secateurs and loppers, and climbed the first of the stone steps which led up the steep garden to the back door of the bungalow. I hadn’t slept last night, I had worked most of today; surely sleep would come early tonight? And tomorrow Mrs Hardy would drop in and perhaps leave me some of her placid contentment.

  Four

  WHEN MRS HARDY got home from the cinema there was no time for sausage and mash. The situation with Tom Hardy and his wife Della had suddenly worsened. Della had been taken into hospital that afternoon in an effort to control her soaring blood pressure.

  ‘No need for you to panic, my maid.’ Hardy had cut sandwiches, and now bundled them inexpertly into some foil wrap. ‘He rang through less than an hour ago. Nothing you could’ve done if you’d been here. I told him you’d stay a couple of nights and cover the visiting.’

  She nodded. She had already stuffed her night clothes into a holdall, but still stood there feeling helpless. Then she said sadly, ‘He won’t be able to leave Della now, will he? He can’t leave her to look after a baby on her own.’

  ‘She might go back to her mother.’

  ‘Tom couldn’t let that happen. Mrs Leach – Althea – she was always odd, but since her husband died she’s much worse. Poor Tom. And poor Della, too.’ She looked at her husband and gave a gusty sigh. ‘What a mess, Hardy.’

  He returned her look wryly. ‘I’ll go on doing out his room, anyway. You never know when he might want it.’

  She nodded. Then she telephoned the matron at Tall Trees, told her about Della, locked up the house, and they left.

  Hardy’s van, discreetly grey rather than metallic, bumped its way in front of the Victorian pile of the original hospital in Cheltenham, and Hardy began a long search for a place to put it. The car park was full as usual, and eventually he drove the van into a space reserved for doctors. It had been a poor drive: very dark and full of spray from lorries and cars. Even Mrs Hardy had not been able to find words to speak. Their silence was a pall of anxiety.

  Once parked, they put their heads down against the rain and hurried into the maternity unit. Tom was expecting them, and there he was, standing in a corner of the foyer talking to a woman in a white coat wearing a stethoscope around her neck. Otherwise the rows of chairs were empty; visiting time had started.

  ‘He looks terrible.’ Mrs Hardy hung back, holding Hardy’s arm.

  ‘Just cos his sweatshirt is – is—’

  ‘Ripped. His sweatshirt is ripped. And his hair is on end.’

  ‘His hair’s like yours.’

  ‘Thank you!’

  ‘I mean curly. Black.’

  ‘Mine’s grey and not curly any more. And his hair ain’t seen a comb in days.’

  Tom turned and saw them, and held out his hand. ‘My parents,’ he said to the woman with the stethoscope. Then to them, briefly, without any expression, ‘There has to be an operation. A Caesarean. But the blood pressure needs to be down. A bit.’ Tom was like his father, he stated facts only.

  They both smiled at the woman. Mrs Hardy turned to Tom. ‘Where are you living?’

  Tom flicked her a look from his dark eyes. ‘At the flat. I have to. Della is just . . . so frightened.’

  ‘Tis only right,’ Mrs Hardy said stolidly. ‘I’ll stay there. Dad will have to go back. Work.’

  It was agreed tacitly. They went in to see Della. She was huge. She was weeping. Mrs Hardy realized she had rarely seen her not weeping. But at least she had something to weep about now. Mrs Hardy had always been ‘good’ with her. She held her gently and told her how wonderful she was, and at last she calmed down.

  Hardy drove the three of them to the flat in Bath Road. They picked up fish and chips on the way there, and sat eating them glumly. Mrs Hardy spoke of Harry Potter and Mrs Venables, and Tom said bleakly, ‘You’re not still seeing that woman, are you?’

  ‘Don’t speak like that, our Tom.’ His mother gave him one of her looks. ‘She’s making progress.’ Just for a moment she considered telling him about the ghost of Mr Venables shoving her into the old lake not so long ago, but then decided against it.

  Tom said indifferently, ‘Good.’

  Hardy left them just before ten o’clock. Mrs Hardy made up the spare bed and went to bed. Just before midnight Tom went out on an emergency call. He was not back the next morning when she got up.

  By Thursday they were both exhausted. And then came the operation.

  Vivian’s story

  Mrs Hardy did not come the next day. I told myself she must have dropped in while I was running, so I did not venture out at all on Tuesday. She did not come.

  On Wednesday I ran very early, and when she had not ping-ponged by the time it started to get dark, I rang her number. Mr Hardy answered.

  ‘Good of you to ring, Mrs Venables. Not much news as yet. Blood pressure under control . . . dun’t know what that means zackly, but it’s got to be better than if it’s not. Once they’re happy with that they will do a Caesarean. That’s what they said this morning.’

  My mind was jumping around crazily. First of all it sounded as if Mrs Hardy was in hospital with blood-pressure problems. But she certainly was not having a baby.

  I said tentatively, ‘The baby wasn’t due for a while, then?’

  ‘No. We was called on Saturday night.’ He paused, then said, ‘She’s a bit on her own, you see. Della. Tom’s wife.’

  My wits were all over the place, but I had enough sense to ask, ‘Can you give me the address of the hospital, Mr Hardy? I can send flowers or something.’

  He gave me the address of a maternity unit in a hospital in Cheltenham. I stared at the wallpaper in the hall. Almost an hour’s drive up the M5. And Mr Hardy did not like people in his van. So I would have to do it myself.

  I put down the phone and went on staring at the wallpaper. I was so wrapped up in fighting off memory . . . and all the time Mrs Hardy . . . faithful Mrs Hardy . . .
had been dealing with her daughter-in-law’s pregnancy . . . job at the nursing home . . . and me.

  I put my head against a faded paper rose and groaned aloud. After thinking what, if anything, I could do, I glanced at my watch, saw the shops would still be open, and got out the Yellow Pages. I rang an Interflora agent and had a long conversation about flowers, discovering that carnations were best, because they survived hospital heat so well, and then something stopped me before I placed my order. I put the receiver down very gently.

  After another boiled egg, I got out some notepaper and began to write to Mrs Hardy, care of Cheltenham hospital. Then I realized that my Mrs Hardy and her daughter-in-law would have the same name. I frowned into the ashy fire-place and geared my letter to the two of them. I remembered the daughter-in-law’s name. Della. I rolled it around my mouth, and suddenly a stupid teenage sort of joke flipped into and out of my head. What a good job neither of them had been christened Laurel! I was ashamed of the sheer superficiality of that thought, when the whole situation was so big and serious. Yet, as I finished off the little note to them both I must have been dallying with it still, because I realized that I had no idea what Mrs Hardy’s first name was. Just supposing . . . I pushed the notepaper into an envelope and sealed it briskly.