The Path to the Lake

by Susan Sallis

  Viv went on up the path through the woods. The music started again, and she supposed so did the children, and she smiled, imagining them releasing all that pent-up, extrovert energy to their own special music. She wondered how long it would be before they realized, all too clearly, that they danced to words all the time.

  The trees ended abruptly, and she was on top of a bald hill, looking down the coastline to where the Atlantic surged into the estuary daily. Below her in the small muddy harbour, the Pill, a boat was on stilts being scraped before the next tide floated it off. The light was fading, and the Pill was in the shadow of Becket’s anyway, but it looked exactly like the boat she had seen here last year. And she was standing now where David had appeared that day, a Sunday morning. And she had run away.

  She left the path and began to giant stride down the steep grass slope, just as he had done before. She ended up, breathless, just above the boat. She was exhausted, exhilarated, as she imagined those dancing children had been. Like the girl, she bent over from the waist, clutching her sides, laughing aloud. As she straightened, a man ducked from the other side of the boat, and straightened too, looking up at her questioningly. He was holding a bucket and a brush. She could smell the tar.

  ‘You all right, lady? Did you fall?’

  She was momentarily shocked at his sudden appearance when she had thought the whole spread of sea and land was hers alone. She clamped her hand to her side as a stitch pulled muscles across her waist.

  ‘No. I sort of slid and ran from the top.’ She was breathless, panting. ‘No, I’m fine. Thanks.’

  They both waited for her to recover; he stood awkwardly, holding the brush over the bucket; she bent again, measured her breathing as she always had done, lifted her head and smiled down at the man.

  ‘I suppose people are always doing that,’ she said.

  ‘The kids do it. Yes. Dangerous. That’s why I told ’em to have their jig or whatever they call it down in the old lake area.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was interested. ‘I think they would call it a gig. There’s a couple there now, practising I suppose.’ She smiled. ‘They looked like acrobats.’ Then she frowned. ‘What about if they fall into the lake? There’s no water.’

  ‘I got them to sweep it out after yesterday’s tide. Still got the big brooms we always used. They thought it was fun. I told them about the acoustics. They’ll use the lake bed, see. It contains the noise as well as the kids. We strung up the old fairy lights so they can see what they’re doing.’

  She stared at him, astonished. He grinned suddenly, and nodded. ‘I know it’s still risky, but you got to give them some slack sometimes. Trust them. There won’t be any drink or drugs. That was the deal.’

  ‘Yes.’ She was having difficulty in accepting that anyone except herself . . . and the Hardys and Juniper and Jinx, of course, knew anything about the lake.

  He said, ‘I’m Jack. Jack Bartholomew. My mother used to supervise the stuff at the lake.’

  She felt her face stretch wide. She stammered, ‘I remember. Of course I remember. It was all coming to an end when we moved here, but when I was a child . . . we came for the day. Picnics . . .’

  He nodded. ‘Lot of Sunday-school treats happened in those days. No health and safety then. The kids scooted down that hill on tin trays.’

  She nodded, then blurted, ‘Last year I walked along the path here. It was a Sunday. I think you were here then. Painting your boat.’

  ‘I would have been. I put it up in the winter these days.’ He smiled. ‘You used to jog a lot, didn’t you?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I know about you. I saw you the other night. Juniper Stevens was with you, wasn’t she?’

  Viv was aghast. The whole thing was going to be dragged into the open. How would they explain it?

  He saw her total dismay, and said quickly, ‘It’s all right. I know Mick Hardy. We used to go fishing together.’

  Viv sat down abruptly on the slippery grass. He made a move to clamber over the rocks. She said quickly, ‘I’m all right. Embarrassed, of course. I can’t explain . . . I’m so sorry.’

  Thankfully he stopped where he was. She got to her feet. He seemed to be waiting. She stammered, ‘Perhaps . . . maybe . . . you could talk to Mick?’

  He lifted his shoulders. ‘Nothing to talk about. They’re going to fill the lake properly again. No facilities for swimmers, but if anyone wants to use it . . .’

  She did not know what to say. There was silence. Into it came a bass beat from around the corner of the hill. She cleared her throat. ‘Is the gig starting already?’

  ‘More practice prob’ly.’ He, too, cleared his throat. ‘Everything’s different when you’re young. You never think about consequences. What you might have to do to put things . . . level . . . again.’

  ‘No. That is true.’

  He took an audible breath. ‘There was a lot went on. Always seems to be something going on. But then . . .’ Another breath. ‘My mother’s got her marbles in the right place. She could tell you.’ He puffed a little laugh. ‘She’s told me. Course. But tell the truth, it goes in one ear and out the other. And half of it she makes up. The Jacksons were good at making things up. And she’s a Jackson, all right.’ His laugh was full-blown. He expected her to echo it. She tried.

  He said, ‘Why don’t you go and see her? She knows about you. She’d really enjoy seeing you. She lives in that sheltered housing place. Nice little bungalow. Friends around her. Couldn’t be better for her. I’ll tell her you’ll call in, shall I? Would you mind?’

  ‘No. I wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘You might like to write down some of her memories. You could make a book out of it, really.’

  ‘I think I’ve done enough writing down.’ But she did not speak those words. She was already moving off.

  When she was out of his line of vision, she started to run. She thought, it will never end. So long as I live it will be there.

  Twenty-six

  THE BIRTHDAY PARTY was a riot. Joy and Michael might not have known what it was all about, but they soon realized it was in their honour. Until their grandparents arrived, the favourite presents were their baseball caps, one with a blue peak, the other pink. They learned that when they peered out from beneath the peaks with pursed lips they got kisses, and laughter, and applause, too.

  When the van drew up, Tom was summoned, and he and Hardy staggered through the garden with the rocking horses and installed them on the flagged patio outside the window. Cumber and Maisie bestrode them and had a twin each in front of them. The excitement was intense. Everybody had to sing a song and every song had a chorus of: ‘Jig-jog jig-jog jigalong home’. Hardy watched them, his face split by a beaming smile. Hildie watched him, and then the twins also, with great pride. Tom caught Viv’s eye and put up one thumb and after a second she did the same.

  Elisabeth was looking tired. When her ex-husband arrived he remarked on it, and Tom heard him and visibly bristled. Viv took Tom’s arm and led him to the kitchen area, where glasses and beakers were piled high in the sink.

  ‘Let’s do these.’ She pushed up the sleeves of her cardigan. ‘You dry, Tom. You know where things go.’

  ‘We’ve got a damned dishwasher, Viv,’ he protested. ‘I think Elisabeth needs some protection from the chairman of Mason Electronics, don’t you?’

  ‘Not from you, Tom. She will become piggy in the middle. Your parents will rescue her. And dishwashers need to be loaded and unloaded. We can have this lot done and put away ready for the birthday tea. Actually, that will cheer up Elisabeth, she likes things organized properly.’ She glanced over her shoulder; Hildie was already standing by Elisabeth. ‘And actually again, she is looking tired. Bad nights with Joy and Mike?’

  ‘Not particularly. Maisie isn’t especially cooperative lately.’ He took the offered tea towel reluctantly. ‘Of course Elisabeth doesn’t have any time to give her until the babies are in bed.’

  ‘Ah.’ Viv rinsed a glass and set it in the drainer. ‘I tho
ught Maisie might take over the bedtime thing.’

  Tom’s mouth tightened. ‘The other evening I overheard her tell her mother she gave far more time to her stepchildren than she did to her own daughter.’

  ‘Which is probably true. And will be for quite a time.’ She glanced up. ‘Would it help or make it worse if I talked to Maisie?’

  ‘I don’t know. You could try. But she thinks of you as a friend. It would be a great pity if that changed.’ He sighed. ‘I tried to get her to write things down – you know, in the third person. But you didn’t do it, so I can’t expect her to.’

  ‘I did.’ She smiled wryly. ‘I should have thanked you. It helped enormously. I’ll never be free of it, of course, but it has allowed me to find certain . . . redemptive . . . qualities. In the whole thing.’

  He was pleased. ‘I did the same, Viv.’

  She nodded. ‘Yes. Hildie said you had. A useful psychological tool, I think.’ She picked up another cloth and began to dry. ‘Leave it with me, Tom. I’ll see how Maisie reacts. If it’s not good I’ll drop it. All right?’

  ‘Thanks. Look how good she is now – thoroughly enjoying herself with the kids on the horses.’

  ‘She loves them, Tom. That’s the important thing.’ She put the last glass in one of the new cupboards and added quietly, ‘It’s the only thing.’

  He laughed. ‘Wise older sister, eh?’

  ‘Oh, Tom.’ She looked at him, and he saw the tears but ignored them, and said, ‘Does it sound good?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘I agree.’

  He held out his hand and she took it, tea towels and all. She thought he might lean over and peck her cheek, but he held on to her hand instead and said in a low voice, ‘So be it.’

  And she repeated, ‘So be it.’

  Tea was almost civilized. Margaret, Alan Mason’s second wife, arrived hot from some committee meeting and took over the ‘waitressing’ with aplomb. ‘Darlings, I had the most enormous lunch at my club. Couldn’t eat another thing. And I borrowed this outfit specially for the job, so please don’t ruin it for me.’ She ferreted in her bag, and produced a white cap and frilly apron.

  Maisie whispered to Cumber: ‘She didn’t borrow it at all, at least not today. It’s what she calls her vamp’s outfit, for when Dad is tired or gets cross.’

  Viv, overhearing, glanced at Elisabeth, pretty and plump and organized and kind, yet still no competition for Margaret Mason. Elisabeth caught her eye and closed one of hers and Viv knew it was all right. Elisabeth was very happy to be herself, almost married to Tom Hardy and with a ready-made family. Of course she was tired and perhaps unhappy about Maisie at the moment, but she knew it was part of the family life she had chosen. Viv decided to leave well alone; Maisie was sensitive where her mother was concerned, and might well think Elisabeth had asked Viv to ‘talk’ to her.

  They ate sandwiches and jelly, and Elisabeth and Maisie fed the twins and fielded flying jelly, and laughed together and Viv relaxed and turned to Cumber on her left.

  ‘Hello, Miranda. How’s it going? Egg and cress?’

  ‘Oh thanks, Viv. D’you mind me calling you Viv?’

  ‘Not a bit. I called you Miranda.’

  ‘I like it. Everyone calls me Cumber except Gramps, of course.’ She smiled. ‘He hated Mum marrying Dad, so he pretends I’m called Miranda Field.’ She giggled. ‘When I got to know things I thought Mum and Dad weren’t married, and I really was Miranda Field. But then I had to have my birth certificate for school and—’ She drew her face down and said in sepulchral tones, ‘. . . I really am Miranda Cumberbatch, whether Gramps likes it or not.’ She laughed. ‘He’s OK, really. It’s just that when Mum and Dad are on tour it’s deadly dull living in an enormous house in the Cotswolds with your grandfather, who is a botanist. And though he thinks Mum and Dad should get proper jobs, when he’s in charge of me I have to practise on Mattie far oftener than when Mum and Dad are home. Mattie is my double bass,’ she added as Viv’s eyebrows went up.

  ‘So your parents are . . . in show business?’

  ‘Musicians. Both of them strings. They’re backing Marvelmen at the moment. But after the German tour they’ve got something lined up with a string quartet. They can play anything.’ She was flushed with pride.

  Viv said warmly, ‘How wonderful, Cumber. No wonder you like being called that. No one can copy a name like you’ve got.’

  ‘No, they can’t, can they?’ She finished her sandwich, and then said diffidently, ‘Maisie has told me about your husband. Mrs Harper – our Eng. Lit. teacher – would like to meet you. She is going to write to you, actually. Will that be all right? Maisie says you are stricken with grief and I wondered whether you might not want to see anyone from the past.’

  Viv could imagine these two eleven-year-olds romanticizing the couple who lived on the hill. She could also imagine Merilees Harper’s diffidence about getting in touch again. Vivvie Lennard had been practically a recluse at school.

  She said, ‘Of course it will be all right, Cumber. I am looking forward to it.’ She smiled as she realized how true that was; it would of course be marvellous if Merilees Harper could arrange an exhibition of David’s work, but even without that, it would be very good to see her again. Vivvie Lennard had kept herself to herself to protect her father, but she had always admired Merry McKinnon, who had run the school drama society.

  Cumber smiled back at her mistily, and said, ‘It’s so great here. Maisie’s family. Full of life.’

  ‘I take it your parents will be home for Christmas?’ Viv asked.

  ‘Not sure. Maisie said I could come and sleep in her bottom bunk if they weren’t home, but I couldn’t leave Gramps.’

  ‘Might it be possible . . .’ Viv spoke hesitantly. ‘None of my business and all that, but perhaps you and Maisie could cook Christmas lunch for Gramps and then have Tom and Elisabeth and the twins for tea.’

  Cumber’s face lit gradually from within. She breathed, ‘It would be really great. We’ve loads of rooms and things. And the heating is always on because Gramps has breathing difficulties in the winter. We could play treasure seekers – Maisie could come over and we could work out a trail and write clues and things—’

  ‘Hang on, for goodness’ sake! You haven’t asked Gramps and you don’t know whether your parents will be home—’

  ‘It would be even better if they were! They could play carols, and we could sing and dance – oh Viv, it would be fab. You must come and Mr and Mrs Hardy.’

  ‘Definitely not me, Cumber. Really. I’m booked at our local nursing home.’

  Cumber’s face did another quick change. ‘Oh no! You’re ill?’

  ‘I hope not. We’ve started a reading group there and we’re finding extracts from A Christmas Carol we can read to the others after tea to frighten them all to death – not quite to death, perhaps!’

  ‘Oh Viv, what a shame. When it’s your idea, too!’

  Maisie turned and called, ‘What idea? Tell!’

  ‘Later.’ Cumber called back. ‘It’s good, you’ll like it.’

  Margaret brought two small cakes in then, lit with a candle each, and everyone gathered around to give their own version of how to blow out the tiny flames. Unfortunately when they succeeded and the wicks emitted smoke, both children burst into tears, and the candles had to be lit again. And then again.

  Still laughing, the party began to break up. Hardy, crouched over the television, announced that City had lost their match, and heavy rain was forecast from the west. Hildie immediately fetched coats and gloves. Margaret glanced at the wrecked table and said they would have to make a move, too. Maisie said, ‘Me and Cumber will put Mike and Joy to bed, if you like.’ Elisabeth hugged both girls and called them angels of mercy. Maisie was forced to say honestly, ‘Not really. We’ve got something to discuss.’

  They drove through Bristol because the motorway was heavily congested; it meant going up the combe and passing the spot where David had twisted the steer
ing-wheel and taken them over the edge and into the beech trees. Viv had not come this way for two years, and she waited for at least an echo of that terror to return. Nothing happened. Hardy said nothing, and after they had passed the road sign emblazoned with its zig-zag warning, Hildie turned in her seat and said, ‘I think Della would have been pleased, don’t you, Viv?’

  For a moment Viv was unable to understand the question, and when she did relief came with comprehension, because if Hildie had remembered about the combe she would never have asked such a thing.

  She said, ‘I’m sure she would. But don’t forget, Hildie, I never met her. I have no idea what she looked like. I know her only through what you have told me.’

  Hardy cleared his throat. ‘What a thing to be talking about! Course anyone would be pleased that their families are coping, let alone having parties. Trust you to bring up the subject of dead people!’

  Viv released the strap long enough to pat Hardy’s shoulder. ‘Hildie doesn’t want to forget her – not on the twins’ first birthday.’

  ‘I know, I know. All I’m saying is, it went well by any measure. And if half Hildie tells me is right, then Della was there and was enjoying it with the rest of us.’

  ‘Cumber is keen to invite them up for Christmas tea.’ Viv changed the subject tactfully. ‘Were you planning to have them to stay?’

  ‘No, we weren’t. Not again,’ Hardy got in before Hildie could open her mouth. ‘I just hope they’ll go! Nice change for them, and good for Maisie, too. That Cucumber girl is really nice.’ He got the laughter he had asked for, and settled into his seat for the long drive downhill to the sea and the village.

  Viv said, ‘I did tell you, didn’t I, Juniper, Winnie, Esmé and that nice Lily Croker are going to do some readings on Christmas afternoon – then sing carols?’

  ‘You did. But you will come and have some of our turkey, won’t you?’

  ‘Love to. Thanks, Hildie.’ Viv caught a glimpse of moonlight on water. ‘And tomorrow, I’m going to see Mrs Bartholomew. Her son was caulking his boat a couple of weeks back. We were passing the time of day, and it turned out he was Mrs Bartholomew’s son. He asked me if I would call on his mother. I said I would.’