The Ullswater Undertaking

by Rebecca Tope

  ‘Good idea. You’ll need to wrap the little one up warm, though. There’s quite a nasty little wind today.’

  The bus was prompt, and Russell was the only passenger to alight at the Hartsop stop, to nobody’s surprise, despite it being a pleasant spring weekend. Tourists might be constantly urged to use buses wherever possible, but the schedules did little to entice anyone to comply. A walk on the fells would be rendered far less relaxing if imbued with worry about missing the only bus back to the hotel or B&B. Hartsop boasted a fair-sized car park at the foot of the Dodd, and almost everyone gratefully used it.

  ‘Hello, my lad,’ Russell greeted Robin, who was asleep. ‘Enjoying the fresh air, are you?’

  ‘He’s due to wake up any minute now,’ said Simmy.

  Russell nudged his wife. ‘Who knew that sleeping could run so beautifully to schedule?’ he teased. ‘If I remember rightly, we had no such expectations when we had our infant.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it’ll last,’ said Angie.

  They all strolled down the winding little road that was the centre of Hartsop, remarking on the bluebells and celandines that grew on any available patch of uncultivated land. There were stone walls separating the few houses from the road, with narrow grass verges fringing them. In April these verges exuberantly sported wild flowers, if allowed to. Above them the dramatic conical hill known as Hartsop Dodd cast a shadow. ‘It reminds me of The Old Man of Coniston,’ said Simmy. ‘Except it has a lot less character. But they both loom over the settlement as if humanity was just a minor intrusion on the grander scale of things.’

  ‘That’s my girl,’ said Russell cheerfully. ‘Seeing the bigger picture. I must say I’m glad you moved here. It’s opened up a whole new area for me to explore.’

  Angie sighed. ‘You’re both bonkers. If you look more closely, you can see humanity crawling all over that hill, leaving tracks and scaring the sheep.’

  ‘And I suppose the sheep are only there because of humanity, anyway,’ Simmy said.

  ‘Right,’ Russell confirmed. ‘Without them, the whole landscape would be covered in trees. Once you realise that, it completely changes how you see the fells. They’re like someone with a shaven head. It’s not natural.’

  It was a recurring debate across the whole region – whether or not sheep had always been there, running wild and eating baby trees, or whether they had been artificially introduced, thereby destroying the essential harmonies and systems that nature intended. There were plenty of voices raised in favour of bare uplands, claiming they favoured certain birds and butterflies that would not prosper if there was nothing but trees everywhere. Russell Straw tended to the anti-sheep argument, but he insisted that he remained open-minded on the subject. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘we all know the sheep aren’t going anywhere.’

  They went back to the house for a drink, while Russell rhapsodised about the winding road from Windermere, and how it got worse and worse after Kirkstone Pass. ‘It’s as if someone deliberately set out to play a joke on all these tourists,’ he chuckled. ‘The stone walls look as if they move in the night, just to trick everybody.’

  ‘A cruel joke, if you ask me,’ said Simmy, who was apprehensive about driving down to her Windermere shop along that very road, in all weathers. ‘I don’t know how they navigate a bus round those awful bends.’

  ‘It’s only four or five miles,’ shrugged Russell. ‘After Patterdale it’s almost civilised.’

  ‘Which is the bit that Christopher gets to use,’ Simmy pointed out. ‘His drive to work is a dream compared to what mine’s going to be.’

  ‘Too late to worry about that now,’ said Angie. ‘But I suggest you make sure you keep your car serviced. Good tyres and so forth.’

  The family spent a lazy couple of hours together in the barn conversion, making unrealistic plans for the summer and discussing various memorable guests at the Beck View B&B. Robin woke as predicted and entertained his grandfather for half an hour. The Straws left at four-thirty, giving Simmy a full two hours to catch up with some sleep before Christopher came home. On Angie’s firm insistence, she took the baby to bed with her, feeling as if she was breaking at least three cast-iron laws. As she drifted into sleep, she remembered the ominous tones of the man on the phone who was intent on meeting Christopher. What had her fiancé promised to do, and what would be the penalty for failing to have done it?

  Chapter Two

  ‘So who’s Fabian Crick?’ Simmy remembered to ask, nearly an hour after Christopher got home. ‘He phoned here this afternoon, wanting you.’

  She watched his face closely, having no idea what to expect. All she could discern was sheer astonishment. ‘Crickers? Is that who you mean? He’s dead, as far as I know. Last I saw him was in Botswana, where he was dying of sleeping sickness. A tsetse fly bit him.’

  ‘Seems he recovered and is living right here on your doorstep. He didn’t sound very nice.’

  Christopher was lost in reminiscence, once he’d got over his surprise at the man’s continued existence. ‘It must be ten or twelve years ago, at least. We were in an overland group, doing Africa from top to bottom. He was all right, once you got to know him. A bit geeky. Probably on the spectrum, as they say now. Nearly twenty years older than me, but we shared a tent a few times because we were both solo travellers. He was pretty sick by the time we got into the Okavanga and they flew him off to a hospital somewhere. It was all rather a drama.’

  Simmy waited for the story to finish, eyebrows slightly raised. Christopher went on in some bewilderment. ‘You’re telling me he called here? How would he know the number? He can’t possibly be living near here. He was in London, I think. Although I remember that his family did live in Cumbria.’

  ‘I’m just repeating what he said. He wants to talk to you about a promise you made – calling in a favour of some sort.’

  ‘Oh God!’ Christopher suddenly leant back in the chair by the radiator and stared blindly at the wall in front of him. ‘I did, didn’t I? Lord help me. He probably wants to kill me, then. We’d better bar the doors and windows.’

  Simmy’s first concern was for her baby. A threatening man with a grievance against her partner was no joke. ‘You’re not serious?’ she said. ‘What about Robin?’

  ‘I don’t know. Let me think. Did he leave a number? What did he say exactly?’

  ‘I can’t remember the exact words. He didn’t sound friendly. You made him a promise and he’s coming to remind you of it. And he now lives in Ullswater. You don’t really think we should worry about him, do you?’

  ‘I thought he was dead. He was in pretty poor shape even before the fly bit him. Drugs, smoking like a chimney, eating nothing but junk. The medics that came for him obviously thought he’d barely survive the trip to hospital. He and I had ten minutes together in the tent, and he was raving. Something about an aunt who lived in England and needed to hear an important message from him. Honestly, it was like something from a cheap thriller. I don’t remember any details – I didn’t take it at all seriously. I mean – you promise anything to a dying person, don’t you?’

  ‘Some people do, evidently,’ said Simmy, recalling an instance in Grasmere where Christopher had also made a rash promise to a dying friend. ‘You especially,’ she added.

  ‘Oh? Maybe I do. It’s wrong, do you think?’

  ‘It might backfire sometimes,’ she said carefully. ‘Like it seems to have done with this Crick person.’

  ‘I do remember thinking the aunt sounded interesting and it might be fun to visit her next time I was up here seeing my folks.’ Again, his gaze was on the wall. ‘He called her “the ultimate entrepreneur” I remember. That caught my attention.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah. The thing is, I’d been doing a bit of dealing before that trip – buying indigenous artwork cheap on the streets and selling it for big profits. I’d been boasting about how easy it was to make money if you just found the right niche. And Crickers picked up the fact that I had peop
le in Cumbria, the same as he did. He connected it all up – that’s how his brain worked – and told me I should visit the aunt and see if she had some words of advice for me, and to tell her he was thinking of her in his final days. All rather melodramatic, I admit, but not the sort of urgent message you’re making it sound. I thought I might as well do it, if I was in the area – but by the time I got back here, I’d completely forgotten her name, address – the whole thing. And whatever you say, the fact that I was sure he was dead made it seem a bit pointless.’

  Simmy thought of wartime soldiers taking considerable trouble to visit the widows of their dead comrades to describe their final moments and wondered whether Christopher was typical of subsequent generations who disregarded such obligations. ‘You could have told her all about what happened to him. People like to have the full story when someone dies, you know.’

  ‘I suppose they do,’ he said doubtfully. ‘But I can’t say I saw it like that at the time. She was only an aunt, after all.’

  ‘The fact remains that you ignored your promise to this man, the way he sees it. And now he wants some sort of recompense.’

  ‘I didn’t ignore it. My plans changed. It was another three years before I came back here. Anybody would have forgotten after that time. I was young and irresponsible, I admit. I’ll be able to explain it to him. I mean – he’s damned lucky to be alive. And the aunt must have died yonks ago. He probably just wants to rub my nose in it.’

  She gave him a suspicious scrutiny. ‘Are you trying to make light of it? He sounded as if it’s been building up to quite a head of resentment.’

  Christopher groaned. ‘The honest truth is that I barely even knew the man. It was just my luck that I ended up being the one to watch over him while the medics struggled to get to us. Who knows what might have been happening to him in the past ten years? He might have gone completely round the bend – or the exact opposite. For all I know, he’s married with three kids and working in a bank. He might want to come round for a drink and a laugh about those crazy days in Africa. How am I supposed to know?’

  She sighed. ‘Well, I think we can assume he hasn’t been living around here for very long. If he had, don’t you think he’d have found you before this? You were in the paper last year – name, job, everything. Before that, the Henderson name was out there when your father died. He obviously hasn’t been looking for you until recently.’

  ‘Which phone did he use?’ Christopher asked suddenly.

  ‘Um – the landline.’

  ‘So how did he get that number?’

  ‘They still have directory enquiries, don’t they?’

  ‘Do they? Did it not occur to us to go ex-directory, then?’

  ‘Not to me it didn’t. I quite like being available at the end of a phone.’

  ‘Did he leave a number for me to call back?’

  ‘No, but you can get it with 1471. Nobody’s called since then.’

  ‘Good thinking. I’ll do that – I’m not sitting around waiting for him to condescend to phone back.’ But when he tried to get the number, there was a message: Caller withheld their number. Christopher slammed the phone down and snarled, ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  Robin interrupted at that point with a demand for attention and some food if possible, please. Christopher forgot the phone and applied himself to ten minutes of playtime. ‘A whole day tomorrow for more bonding,’ he rejoiced.

  ‘We’re not going to Hannah’s then?’ asked Simmy.

  ‘Nope. That can wait till next weekend. I told her already, it’s too soon. We’re not ready to take him out into the world yet.’

  ‘I’ve taken him to the pub at least three times. He’ll be three weeks old on Tuesday.’

  ‘My sisters both saw him when you brought him home. They can wait another week. I want him all to myself.’

  ‘You should have put in for paternity leave. It’s your legal right.’

  ‘Don’t start that again.’ They had debated and argued the point endlessly, in Robin’s first few days. Simmy had taken so readily to breastfeeding; the baby was so placid and accommodating; Angie and Russell were so attentive; the auction house was so unusually busy – it all made Christopher feel he would be more use as a father in a few more months’ time. The rules allowed for him to have two weeks paid leave at any point during the coming year, and it seemed to him sensible to postpone it.

  ‘You’re right. Sorry.’ Simmy’s compliance was genuine. Her days at home with the baby were far less stressful, far more delightful than she had anticipated, partly thanks to the presence of Humphrey the builder and his young workmate. With her habitual tendency to take nothing for granted, she assured Christopher that there would be times when his participation would be indispensable. ‘You can have him all day long when he’s teething.’

  ‘And all day Sunday, remember. Every Sunday for the rest of my life.’

  She laughed and took the baby from him for a feed. Having prepared herself for a total lack of routine, giving feeds whenever the child showed interest, snatching naps when Robin slept and abandoning any thought of housework, the reality was utterly different. The newborn evidently had an active internal clock set to three-hourly intervals. At night this stretched to four blissful hours. He enjoyed his wakeful periods, watching flickering light with as much fascination as he watched his mother’s face. ‘He must be brain damaged,’ said Angie carelessly. ‘No normal baby is as good as this.’

  ‘He’s just naturally pleased to be alive,’ said Simmy defensively. ‘The health visitor says he’s completely healthy.’

  The evening was approaching its early end. Simmy and Christopher often went to bed at nine-thirty, sleeping until Robin called out at midnight. Chris might then go and make a milky drink for them both, which generally ensured that they slept deeply until the 4 a.m. summons. ‘Something’s supposed to change when he gets to three weeks,’ Simmy warned. ‘A growth spurt, apparently.’

  Christopher shrugged unconcernedly. ‘Sufficient unto the day,’ he said.

  But there was an unfinished conversation hanging over them on this Saturday evening. ‘What if that Crick man turns up when you’re at work?’ she worried. ‘What does he look like? What do you think he wants from you?’

  ‘He must be late fifties by now, maybe a bit more. I can’t really remember what he looked like. Middle height, thin, quite colourless.’

  ‘What work did he do? Wasn’t it unusual for a man his age to be doing such a long overland trip?’

  ‘No idea what work he did. He was a bit of a misfit, I guess. There’s generally a wife as well – kids just gone off and the parents awarding themselves an adventure. But there are always exceptions. The group had people of all ages. The youngest was a girl of nineteen, and there was a couple in their seventies. And a man and his daughter, I remember. And a gay couple from Belgium. Gosh – I haven’t given any of them a thought for years.’

  Another detail had snagged Simmy’s attention. ‘You never told me you did antique dealing as long ago as that.’

  ‘They weren’t antiques. Just local crafts. It was lucky chance initially. I was in Lisbon and came across a sort of emporium selling ethnic stuff. I had a few bits and pieces from Tunisia in my rucksack and popped in to see if there was any interest. The bloke almost bit my hand off. Apparently he’d had trouble getting in and out of North Africa, and suggested I do a few trips on his behalf. I stuck to very small items that fitted into my bag or could be sent through the mail without too much hassle. The customs procedures weren’t very efficient, so I always managed to get through. Technically, there was probably duty to pay.’ He was rambling sleepily, reminiscing without much of a logical thread.

  ‘Anything else I should know?’ Simmy persisted.

  ‘Oh – I’ve no idea. The more I try to remember, the less I can dredge up about him. It was all pretty scary and overwrought, with him being so sick. He was practically delirious at times. It was embarrassing for the tour operator, and highly c
omplicated getting him to hospital. He should never have been taken into the Okavanga in the first place. There were arguments about it. All I can remember now is that some female relative living in Cumbria was expecting him to show up for something important. And he asked me to go instead of him and I said I would.’

  ‘So you made a note of her name and address, right? It was something you both assumed was within your capabilities.’

  ‘Not that, exactly. More that I was planning to come back here to catch up with the family, and he made the connection, geographically speaking. It must have seemed too neat to ignore. Haven’t I said all this already?’

  ‘But you promised him.’

  ‘I did. I admit that I did say I’d do it. Whatever it was. It seems like a tremendously long time ago now.’

  ‘Ten years isn’t so long, really. He obviously hasn’t forgotten.’

  ‘Right. And some people take great exception to broken promises.’

  ‘Which explains your first reaction, when you said he’d probably kill you. Which suggests he’s quite a scary person.’

  ‘Scary like a zombie’s scary. My first reaction was that he’d risen from the dead and was out for revenge. On calm reflection, I doubt if he’s more than slightly annoyed. He probably just wants to come and say hi, for old times’ sake.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Simmy, and fell asleep.

  There were visitors just after Sunday lunch, in the shape of Bonnie Lawson and her beloved Ben Harkness, home from university for the Easter vacation. Although they had initially intended to emulate Russell Straw the previous day and come by bus, in the event they were transported by Corinne, Bonnie’s foster mother.

  ‘I just had to see the baby,’ she explained. ‘I’ll only stay a minute. I brought cake.’ She proffered a creased cardboard box containing a modest-sized piece of fruit cake. ‘I made it last week. It’s a bit soggy,’ she added.