by Rebecca Tope
Simmy was fond of the woman and more than happy to drop Robin into her outstretched arms. All the usual blandishments were uttered, and Robin co-operated handsomely. ‘I’ll go up to Penrith while I’m here,’ said Corinne. ‘I need to see a man about a trailer.’
Christopher looked up. ‘Oh? Taking up antique dealing, then?’ To him trailers only meant one thing.
Corinne gave him a blank stare. ‘Absolutely not. It’s for the sheep.’
Bonnie hurried to elucidate. ‘Corinne’s got four Jacobs in the field behind her house. They’re quite new. She has to get hay and stuff for them, so needs a trailer.’
‘I already got the towbar put on,’ said Corinne. ‘It’s all rather exciting.’ She laughed. ‘So I could collect these two on my way back, if you like. But I don’t think I’ll be very long.’
‘That’s okay,’ said Simmy. ‘They may as well stay the afternoon now. One of us will drive them home again. Are you hungry?’ she asked the youngsters when Corinne had gone.
‘Not very,’ said Bonnie. ‘We had a big breakfast. It was more brunch, really.’
Neither visitor was unduly interested in the baby, beyond admiring his new skill of smiling. ‘He seems a cheerful character,’ said Ben.
Christopher was showing only minor irritation at being invaded by his partner’s friends. It was chilly outside, with flurries of rain, so any prospect of a decent walk had already been abandoned. ‘Ben goes back on Thursday, so this is his last chance to see Simmy,’ said Bonnie. ‘Although …’ She looked at her boyfriend, eyebrows raised.
Christopher failed to notice the hesitation and busied himself supplying home-made cake. ‘Angie left us a huge fruit loaf thing yesterday, and we’ll never eat all of it. Plus Corinne brought some as well.’
They ate cake quietly for a few minutes. Simmy noticed glances and even a nudge between Ben and Bonnie and guessed there was something significant waiting to be said. Her first guess was that Bonnie was going to announce that she could no longer endure the ten weeks of term time without Ben and was therefore following him to Newcastle, leaving Simmy with nobody to manage the shop. After that, her imagination ran dry.
‘So – what’s been happening?’ she prompted. ‘Did it go all right yesterday? Has Verity been okay?’
‘Fine. It’s all fine,’ Bonnie assured her. ‘If you come down one day this week to go over the finances, that’s all we need, really. It’s gone quiet again now Easter’s over.’ There had been the usual hectic rush for Mother’s Day and Easter. Simmy had dreaded going into labour on Mother’s Day, because that had been the day her ill-fated first baby had been stillborn, an anniversary that should not be allowed to taint the first hours of the new baby’s life. As it turned out, Robin had waited another nine days to put in an appearance. Simmy had actually managed to juggle orders for flowers, insisting that spending two full days at the shop in the fortieth week of pregnancy was very therapeutic. ‘It passes the time very nicely,’ she had said.
Verity had been kept extremely busy rushing around with deliveries, and Ben’s young sister, Tanya, had done sterling work supplying bouquets and suchlike to customers in the shop alongside Bonnie.
‘We did well, didn’t we?’ said Simmy now. ‘Between us, we’ve kept the show very nicely on the road.’
‘How’s the auction business?’ Ben asked Christopher. ‘I meant to go again over the vac, but it’s impossible to get there without a car. I see you had some memorabilia yesterday. I was looking through the catalogue online. Looked interesting.’
‘Box of old papers,’ Christopher nodded. ‘Nothing special. We get them a lot. Mostly it’s from house clearances – the family just tip everything out of the bureau or whatever and hope there’s nothing important amongst it. Nobody’s got time these days to have a proper look through. It often goes to someone who wants the stamps, if there are bundles of old letters.’
‘Or old photos,’ said Simmy. ‘Those cartes de visite are quite collectable.’
Christopher snorted. ‘Nobody’s got them amongst their personal papers any more. They died out a century and more ago. The photos are all from the 1950s now – Auntie Sylvia on the beach, and babies in paddling pools. And dogs. Usually out of focus.’
‘I’d love to have bought that box, all the same,’ said Ben wistfully.
‘You should have said. I could have kept it for you. It went for eight quid, I think.’
Ben grimaced. ‘Don’t tell me that,’ he said.
‘There’ll be more. Let me know another time, and we’ll do a deal.’
‘Thanks,’ said Ben. Then, after a short silence, he went on, ‘Actually, I suppose this gives me an opening to tell you my news.’ He gave Bonnie a look that seemed to Simmy to contain a degree of apprehension.
‘What?’ Simmy demanded.
Chapter Three
‘Well …’ Ben started nervously, ‘the thing is, I’ve decided to change my course.’ Before anybody could speak, he rushed on. ‘I’ve done two terms now and I’m absolutely sure I went for the wrong subject. I know it’s embarrassing and makes me look an idiot, but I can’t help that. What I’m doing is too narrow, too restricting. I was too young when I made the decision, and never even considered changing it.’ He was addressing Simmy exclusively. ‘I feel I’m letting you down,’ he concluded in a quiet voice.
‘Me? It’s none of my business, is it? What are you going to do instead? Have you told your parents? Will the university just let you change, halfway through the year?’
‘You and Moxon, he means,’ Bonnie explained. ‘After all this time, all through the A-levels and everything, you’ve both been so proud of him. More than Helen and David, really.’
Simmy was horrified. ‘You can’t possibly think I was pressurising you.’ She wanted to throw it back at him, to explain that she had always taken her lead from what he showed every sign of wanting. She regarded herself as little more than a bystander, watching with awe as the young genius forged his way through the educational system. Instead, she felt close to tears and said nothing more.
‘History,’ said Ben quickly. ‘I want to change to history. It fits infinitely better with my interests – and abilities. I like researching and making timelines and that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, but …’ said Simmy. ‘Don’t those things come into the course you’re doing?’
‘Not really.’ He worked his shoulders, and Bonnie patted his leg. ‘It’s more than that, if I’m honest. I don’t much like university life. I expected to meet people like me, as well as people who knew more and were sharper and quicker …’
‘He means cleverer,’ said Bonnie, with a little nod.
‘And didn’t you?’ asked Christopher.
‘Sort of. The trouble is, they’re still like schoolkids, trying to devalue their own abilities. And they’re so helpless. And timid. I tried telling a couple of them about what happened to me in Hawkshead, and they almost ran out of the room. I’m telling you, most of them are like six-year-olds. I can’t even talk to them.’
‘So how will a history course be better?’ wondered Christopher.
Ben grimaced. ‘Good question. I was thinking maybe I could do it through the OU instead. Maybe there’d be a lot of much older students at the tutorials and things, and I might get on better with them.’
‘It sounds to me as if you’ve been horribly miserable,’ said Simmy, feeling an overwhelming sympathy for him.
‘He has,’ said Bonnie. ‘It’s been awful.’
‘Not all the time,’ said Ben. ‘And I really did go for the wrong course. I’ve been very stupid, I know now. Letting all those childish adventures dictate my entire career.’
‘Childish?’ Again, Simmy felt like crying. ‘People have died. You were always so clever, and focused. Don’t rubbish all that now. It’s one thing to feel you don’t fit the life there and another to chuck away the actual studies.’ She looked from Bonnie to Christopher for support. ‘Say something, one of you!’
‘I don’t think you need get upset,’ said Christopher carefully. ‘He’s trying to explain, and you need to stop being so defensive.’ He looked at the youngster. ‘And maybe you could be a bit more sensitive in what you say. Things are a bit overwrought in this house just now.’ He indicated the baby lying on the sofa fast asleep. ‘Even the best of babies creates a degree of stress. Hormones, if I’m allowed to say that.’
‘It’s probably true,’ said Simmy with a short burst of slightly damp laughter. ‘Everything gets out of proportion somehow. It’s like living in a weird sort of bubble.’
‘He didn’t mean to say childish,’ Bonnie explained. ‘He said it much better when he told me.’ She gave Ben an accusing glare. ‘He got it from that quote in the Bible about putting away childish things. You know?’
She was met with blank looks.
‘Anyway, I think he’s right – history is much better. I mean, that’s what we’ve been doing for the past two years, when you think about it – isn’t it? Researching, checking facts, looking at past influences. Not all the time, I know, but some of the murders have needed that kind of work. So he’s not rubbishing anything. Just broadening it out.’
‘Thanks, kid,’ said Ben softly, giving Simmy a wary look. ‘Sorry if I was clumsy.’
‘Maybe it’s just Newcastle that doesn’t suit you,’ suggested Christopher. ‘What about transferring somewhere else? I mean a real university with all the other things that go with it. Theatres and sports and interest groups and things you’d enjoy. Would the OU even have you, under the circumstances?’
Ben sighed. ‘I’d probably have to start again as a first-year in October and just lose this coming term. I’m not sure what all the options are.’
‘You mean, you might not go back next week after all?’ Christopher made a very adult face, indicating scepticism. ‘That does seem like a waste.’
‘It wouldn’t have to be. I could do a whole load of reading, even write some sort of dissertation, if that helped get me in. I’ve had good marks for work done at Newcastle. I think the prof could probably swing it for me.’
‘Listen, Ben,’ said Simmy urgently. ‘It’s absolutely fine by me, whatever you do. I hate to think I might have influenced you. I never meant to. I still can’t get my head round the very idea.’
Bonnie and Ben both gave her looks that said Duh! and Think about it for a minute. Christopher sat back in his chair, clearly wanting to stay out of it.
Finally, Bonnie spoke. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now. The point is, it’s all changing. It was already, anyway, with the baby and Ben being away. And Verity …’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do about Verity, I really don’t.’
Simmy laughed again. ‘You sound like someone my mother’s age – d’you know that? What’s the matter with Verity? I thought she was doing very well.’
Bonnie repeated a criticism that Simmy had heard before. ‘She talks all the time. Most of it rubbish. Telly programmes, and the royal family, and whether her new curtains were a good idea. It’s mind-numbing.’
‘Bonnie thinks it’ll have a bad effect on her brain,’ said Ben. ‘After the highly educational conversations she has with me – and you,’ he added politely.
‘Oh dear,’ said Simmy, thinking there was nothing whatever she could do about that particular problem. All she could suggest was sending Verity out on as many deliveries as possible.
‘That’s hardly within my control, is it?’ Bonnie replied crossly. ‘She already does all the deliveries, anyway.’
‘Maybe there’ll be a nice juicy murder sometime soon. That’ll give her something new to talk about,’ said Christopher.
‘Don’t say that!’ cried Simmy. ‘That’s the last thing we want.’ She moved closer to her sleeping infant. ‘And even if there is something horrible, I don’t want to know anything at all about it. Do you hear me?’ She glared round at the three faces. ‘I’m on maternity leave, and that means nobody brings anything nasty or sad or dangerous into this house for at least a year. I mean it, you know.’
‘Calm down,’ said Christopher. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to disturb your idyll. I’ll barricade the door myself if I have to.’
‘My hero,’ she smiled, not entirely mollified, thanks to the hovering presence of a man called Crickers.
Robin was stirring for his afternoon feed and Simmy had a moment’s indecision as to whether or not she could do it in front of Ben. Angie had talked incessantly about how she would bare her breast anywhere, any time, in order to perform an entirely natural function, and Simmy agreed with her in theory. A friend had bought her a kind of cape, which she was supposed to use to cover her modesty, but Robin disliked being pushed under a curtain of material where he couldn’t watch his mother’s face as he suckled. In the pub, she had remained in the public bar, but tucked into a quiet corner, where nobody had noticed her.
‘Go ahead,’ Ben waved at her, realising her dilemma. ‘I’ve seen it all before.’
‘Have you?’ Bonnie rounded on him. ‘When?’
‘There’s a psychology tutor at uni, who’s got a kid about six months old. She carries it around with her and feeds it every half hour, as far as I can work out. She gets a kick out of showing her flesh to the male students.’
‘Is that allowed?’ demanded Christopher, scandalised.
‘I doubt if there’s a specific regulation, one way or the other. There have been mutterings, but nobody’s quite reached the point of complaining. I mean – who wants to be seen as being that prurient? For a start, it would have to be one of the girls, and they’d be accused of being anti-feminist. When it comes to safe spaces and comfort zones and all that tripe, nobody can quite work out how breastfeeding fits in.
It’s hilarious, actually. And Simmy’s boobs are far neater and more discreet than Ms Sellers’ are.’
‘Well, don’t stare,’ said Bonnie.
It was half past four when Christopher drove the pair all the way back to Bowness, where Ben’s family lived. Bonnie spent a lot of time there too, although technically she still lived with Corinne, her foster mother, half a mile north of the Harknesses. The streets of Windermere and Bowness merged into each other, confusing visitors and mapmakers. Simmy enjoyed an hour with Robin, pulling faces at him and marvelling at the energy building up in his little arms and legs. He was so full of life, it seemed miraculous. More often than she would admit to anybody, the image of poor dead little Edith lying limply in her lap would superimpose itself over Robin’s healthy little body. He would never know his older sister, but always live in her shadow, however faint and forgotten it might become as he grew up. When people asked her how many children she had, she would be forced to decide, every time, whether or not to include her firstborn, who never lived.
Already she was allowing herself to hope that Robin would not be an only child. Her fortieth birthday, and Christopher’s, given that they were born on the same day, was only months away, but somehow it seemed less of a deadline, now she had achieved a living child. The complications that would multiply concerning the shop and finances and logistics if she had another baby were easily pushed aside. How much more difficult could two children be than one? In some ways, it would surely be easier, with them amusing each other as they got older.
She dozed on the sofa with Robin on her chest, their breathing synchronised, everything warm and contented. Life was good. Outside there was half an acre of ground, legally theirs, for garden and shed and cars and paddling pools. That alone had made the new home wonderful to her. Granted it was rocky and steep and covered in scrubby, prickly vegetation, but it was so full of potential it made her breathless. When she had lived in Worcestershire with her first husband, they had only had the tiniest patch of garden, almost all of it paved over. In Troutbeck, she had a bit more, which she filled with tall, colourful flowers – but this was her little family’s own piece of Lakeland fell, and she loved it.
Humphrey the builder would be back next morning, and countl
ess mornings over the coming months, creating two more rooms upstairs and installing walls, shelves, cupboards and floors all over the building – which was still more of a barn than a house. Robin would probably be crawling before it was all finished. Simmy would be back at the shop, with some other woman doing a share of the childcare. Any hope that that would be Angie was fading. The demands of the B&B were relentless, and tentative hints about retirement fell on deaf ears.
Christopher still wasn’t back at six o’clock, when Robin wanted another feed and Simmy herself was feeling decidedly peckish. It was not her job to provide meals, especially at weekends. The freezer was full of easy-cook provisions; they also had bread, potatoes, onions, apples and a cupboard stuffed with rice, pasta and dried fruit. Simmy’s preparations had been excessively efficient in the days before the birth, so that now she felt entitled to sit back and let Christopher take charge of the catering.
Then she heard the engine of a car coming through their road gate and into the gravelled parking area that Humphrey had created as a matter of priority. She got up, baby attached, and looked out of the big new window from the kitchen. It was Christopher’s car; he and another man emerged from it.
She thought she knew who it was, even before they came in and Christopher performed introductions, blithely ignoring his wife’s naked breast. ‘This is Fabian, also known as Crickers,’ he said. ‘I found him down at the junction with the main road, looking lost.’
The man nodded at Simmy with a grin. He was thin, wearing a sleeveless fleece and muddy trainers. His hair was short and flecked with grey. He had poor skin and twitched constantly. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he said. ‘Sorry if I alarmed you yesterday.’
‘You did, a bit,’ she admitted. ‘Excuse me a minute, while I go and sort the baby out. I won’t be long.’ She pulled at her shirt, trying to cover herself. There was nothing noticeably salacious in the man’s expression, not even any embarrassment, and yet she disliked exposing herself to him.
Don’t mind me,’ he said. ‘I spent years in Africa, where the female torso is naked as often as not. It’s a thing of beauty, after all.’
