by Gwen Moffat
‘If I took both would that be robbing you?’
Eleanor gave an angry snort and gestured towards the room they’d come through, so inviting with its linen cloths on chunky wooden tables, its ladder-back chairs. Sunlight streamed through the open door, gold on the sandstone flags. ‘Six parties today,’ she grated. ‘And look at the weather!’
‘It was a dull morning –’
‘It’s not that –’ Eleanor stopped, swallowed, and went on, oddly defiant, as if challenging Miss Pink to contradict her: ‘It’s all these cheap foreign package tours … And our terrible weather – I mean, unpredictable. This is Lakeland. This afternoon’s exceptional. And as you said, the morning was poor.’
Miss Pink nodded and Eleanor realized that the woman was, after all, very old, she’d never see seventy again; at this moment she looked rather stupid – and she hadn’t turned a hair at those silly remarks about the weather. She’d find out soon enough about the salmonella but this wasn’t the moment to enlighten her, not on first acquaintance.
‘I shall need sandwiches,’ Miss Pink said absently, accepting the loaves, ‘I shall be fell-walking.’
‘You’ll have company then. Your neighbour, Phoebe Metcalf, she’s gone over to Closewater today to photograph the orchids. There’s a circular walk. You follow the old quarrymen’s track’ – ushering the other to the front door Eleanor pointed to the skyline – ‘and come back over Gowk Pass. It’s only about ten miles.’ Her eyes slipped sideways, reassessing Miss Pink’s build. ‘Phoebe’s very active; she’s climbed in the Alps.’
‘Is hers the house with the marmalade cat? I called there to ask if she could let me have some bread.’
‘So you’ve met her.’
‘No, there was no answer.’
‘Well, it’s only five thirty.’
Their eyes met for a second and sheered away. ‘How old is she?’ Miss Pink asked.
‘Seventy-eight.’ Eleanor was expressionless. ‘She’s got the physique of a two-year-old.’
Miss Pink knew that she meant a horse, knew too that even young horses break their legs on rough ground – but she said nothing; she was only the visitor here.
Eleanor read the silence correctly. ‘I’ll look in on her later,’ she said, adding untruthfully, ‘I usually walk up that way in the evening.’
From the bedroom window which commanded a stretch of the lane Jean Blamire saw the new tenant from Ashgill pass and dismissed her, all her concentration on a few yards of tarmac. Marty’s van was red, she couldn’t miss it; if it weren’t for the bees in the lilacs she’d hear the noise of its ragged old engine approaching. She shifted her position, sighed and rolled her neck on her spine. She should turn out the light in the oven, the roast would keep hot for ages; if it came to that she could make the gravy now, put it in the oven … What was he doing? Where was he? A striking woman with strong features, indecision made her appear grimly masculine, an expression at odds with the mane of copper hair, the skimpy frock with a cleavage she wouldn’t be seen dead in outside the house despite Marty’s urging her to wear it to the pub. Tall, muscular, powerful, she resembled a drag queen without make-up. What she felt like was a young bride waiting for her man, and far less concerned, if the truth were faced, with the roast drying out than with thoughts of bed. She winced, the image sneaking into her mind of the old sleeping bag in the back of his van. He’d asked for beef tonight, surely he hadn’t forgotten, wasn’t on Scafell or over in Langdale, having found someone to take him up a climb, deciding to spend the night there? Her face crumpled with misery. She knew he could forget. It wouldn’t be the first time.
A blackbird screamed through the lilac and she glanced down to see Phoebe’s cat walking up the flagged path. I’ll give him another five minutes, she thought, and then I’ll change back into jeans, turn out the oven and have a Scotch. It’ll while away the time. Or I could thin the lettuces, or go up and see Mum, it would serve him right to come home to an empty house. But she knew she wouldn’t; she would stay and wait.
She looked up and saw the red van emerge from the sycamores. Her lips parted in delight and she was suddenly ravishing.
In the cramped little cottage on the bank of the beck Eleanor’s waitress, Sherrel Lee, was trying to stick to her guns without getting into a slanging match with her mother. ‘There’s no point anyway,’ she protested wearily. ‘She’s doing no trade, even on a Sunday. Most of the time I got nowt to do.’
‘What are you moaning at?’ Misella was loud and angry, the gypsy blood showing. ‘Money for old rope, that’s what it is. What d’you make today then: fourteen pound? You’re mad to give up the job, girl.’
‘Christ, Mam! All that cream! Them cream cakes!’
‘You love cream c – You’re not – Oh no!’ Misella was standing at the kitchen window where she’d been watching the two toddlers in the garden. The latest baby was asleep on one brawny arm. ‘This un’s not six months, for God’s sake!’
‘I can’t help it.’ And indeed, short of spaying her, Misella thought, she didn’t seem to be able to help herself. ‘You go and work for her then,’ Sherrel shouted. ‘See how you like it. If you’re standing around doing nowt, she’ll have you scrubbing out the toilet.’
‘No way, not when a soul’s handling food.’ But Misella knew that Eleanor Salkeld hadn’t much time for regulations, so maybe that extended to hygiene too. ‘I always held there could have been some truth in that food poisoning,’ she said.
Sherrel’ s eyes widened and she blundered to the door, her hand over her mouth. The little ones watched without much interest as she threw up in the lupins; they’d seen it before, when the last baby was on the way. Misella jiggled him absently on her hip, thinking that since either she or Sherrel was always available for work, there wasn’t all that much difference between six kids and five – and then there was the extra benefit, another ten pounds. Not to be sneezed at – and perhaps the father … She pondered the identity of the father but doubted if anyone knew, even Sherrel. If our Bobby hadn’t had red hair … And where was Bobby? He shouldn’t be playing in the beck, the water was too high. Probably up to Sleylands again but – Sunday afternoon? Maybe Swinburn was gathering and Bobby was out shepherding. He’d be back for his supper that was sure; Mabel Swinburn wasn’t about to feed him.
Sitting outside Ashgill, the warm wall at her back, warm sun in front, a blackbird in full song, the beck a whisper in the bottom of the dale, Miss Pink sipped Tio Pepe and considered what secrets this idyllic prospect might conceal. In Lakeland walkers got lost, climbers fell down cliffs: predictable events in mountainous terrain and fitting a bleak, wild and potentially dangerous landscape. But in the dales, in cottages nestled under ancient sycamores, behind the lilac hedges, behind thick walls, who heard the screams? Time I wrote something, thought Miss Pink, who had abandoned books in favour of the lucrative market for short stories she’d established in America. Now her antennae were twitching to the ambience of Borascal. Why was Eleanor Salkeld so touchy about the dearth of customers? Why indeed were there so few on a fine Sunday afternoon in late spring?
At eight o’clock, back in the garden after her modest supper, she might have put the question when Eleanor appeared, but Eleanor, obviously bewildered, forestalled her. Miss Pink’s shoulders dropped; she had a premonition.
Eleanor said flatly, ‘She’s not home yet.’ Had she not been so concerned she might have wondered at the other’s immediate control of the situation.
‘What time did she leave?’
‘I didn’t see her go but she’s an early riser. Still, whatever time … It’s only ten miles.’ Eleanor’s mind was leapfrogging.
They went indoors and spread a map on the parlour table. ‘This is well used,’ Eleanor said as it tore at a fold.
‘I’ve been in the area before, but not to do this walk.’ Miss Pink followed Eleanor’s finger as she traced the route.
‘See? Over the quarrymen’s track to Closewater and back by way of Gowk Pass and do
wn the zigzags to the head of the dale.’
‘Passing the quarry.’
‘No. Nowhere near it. And the path is so obvious: the whole way in fact. She must have been coming down in good visibility and anyway the track’s at least half a mile from the quarry.’
Miss Pink left the room and returned with a magnifying glass. ‘There’s a path marked: from this elbow in the track, running into the quarry. If you didn’t turn that corner you might continue along the quarry path.’
‘Only if you were a stranger and in mist. The track’s stony and cairned. That level is grassy. Certainly it runs to the quarry or appears to, but it ends smack against a high stone wall with a padlocked gate and a notice saying “Danger. Keep Out. No Trespassing.” That woman’s an expert; even if she weren’t concentrating, she’d know immediately that she’d taken the wrong turning and retreat.’
Miss Pink straightened. ‘It’ll be dark soon, and there won’t be a moon. Still, it looks as if it’ll be a fine night.’
‘You’re not thinking of following her!’
‘Oh no. I think you should – ’ Miss Pink remembered her place. ‘Have you thought about calling the rescue people?’
‘Actually your neighbour runs the team but …’ Eleanor floundered. ‘It would be like reporting it, and one would look silly if she was merely late coming down – and she’d be furious. And then, we’re all the same age …’ What she meant was that it seemed fitting to ask one old lady for advice concerning another, and this one had an air of authority about her.
‘Would she have passed any houses?’ Miss Pink asked. ‘The time might be a help, and she could have spoken to someone.’
‘Of course! The Swinburns! She had to pass the farmyard.’
They moved to the kitchen and while Eleanor used the phone Miss Pink produced a bottle of The Macallan and tumblers. On hearing the shocked ‘Nine? Are you sure?’ she poured stiff measures.
Eleanor explained her concern to the person on the line and listened to the response. ‘Yes,’ she said dully, ‘but she knows what she’s about, Jacob; she’s climbed in the – what? Well, you do!’ Heatedly.
The call ended. ‘Usual bloody reaction,’ she growled. ‘ “At her age she shouldn’t be on the hill.” Thinks he knows it all, thinks a compass is a toy. Hasn’t walked the tops for decades, goes everywhere on wheels.’
Miss Pink proffered the whisky. ‘She passed the farm at nine? It’s on the track?’
‘Yes to both. But even if she took in a peak or two she should be back –’
Miss Pink gaped. ‘You mean she could have gone on the tops: left the track you thought she was on?’
‘Phoebe wouldn’t be satisfied with a ten-mile walk if the cloud lifted – as it did. Ten miles isn’t much more than a half-day for her.’
‘So her coming home late is nothing to worry about? It’s possible she’s making a long day of it.’
The marmalade cat walked in, mewing loudly, his head up, sniffing lamb chops. ‘I must give him something,’ Eleanor said distractedly. ‘She feeds him at six. She’s strict about it. I’ve fed him when she’s away and she’s adamant: it must be six. She’s a believer in routine. Look at him: two hours past his supper time.’
Miss Pink took the plunge. ‘Tell the rescue leader. Report it, then the ball’s in their court. They’ll probably follow her route: it’s good exercise for them if nothing else.’ Her proposed route, she qualified to herself; there was no knowing what an active old climber might get up to, once on the tops on a nice day – or even in mist. Miss Pink had been there and knew that the spirit could be too much for aged flesh.
Hill farmers don’t show their emotions much, all the same, Jacob Swinburn looked thoughtful, even troubled as he replaced the phone. Mabel made no move to restore the sound on the television.
‘You reckon she’s come to harm?’
Jacob shrugged. ‘She’s rising eighty, what d’you expect? Bound to happen sooner or later. And who’d try to stop her, I ask you? I’d sooner face a mad cow, that I would.’
Mabel ignored the posturing. She liked Phoebe Metcalf: a woman who had managed all her life without men. ‘She could be lost. If she gets through the night she’ll come down in the morning. It’s not like winter time.’
Jacob shook his head. ‘Her’s always on the hill, and half the time in mist. Ask me, she prefers mist, no one can see what she’s poking her nose into, trespassing on my –’
‘Now you stop that –’
‘No reason she should be lost today more’n any other day.’ He grinned toothily. ‘More like she fell over a rock, broke summat.’
‘Does Martin know?’
‘She didn’t say.’ He looked sly. ‘Be to her pal’s advantage, wouldn’t it, bring t’rescue team here, t’police, t’media, plenty of customers back in t’caff – providing none of ’em’s scared of being poisoned.’
‘Dad! That were a stunt and you know it. Eleanor’s baking’s better’n mine!’
‘Better watch meself then, hadn’t I, make sure I eat same vittles as yourself.’ He was good-humoured, it was a joke.
Chapter Two
The rescue team didn’t make a big thing of it; Phoebe Metcalf had been a tiger well into middle age and she’d earned respect among mountaineers. Moreover it was a fine night, no one wanted to alert the media at this stage and humiliate an indomitable old girl crawling home with a sprained ankle. The full team did not go out, only Blamire, the leader, with another man walked from Borascal to Closewater while three members traversed Gowk Pass, but between them they covered all of Phoebe’s proposed route and found no sign of her.
By first light next morning the search proper began, concentrating on the second half of the route: over and above Gowk Pass. It was thought that, with the cloud having lifted yesterday afternoon, she must have diverged to climb fells above the pass.
Miss Pink didn’t offer her services to the team; old, stiff and heavy she knew she couldn’t keep up and would be viewed as an encumbrance. She went out alone and she started from scratch, at the farm called Sleylands.
A tractor was idling in the yard, a small boy fiddling with the controls. Unwilling to approach a tractor with a child in the driving seat, Miss Pink paused, undecided, and at that moment a burst of rock music drowned the sound of the engine. The volume was turned down immediately and a craggy fellow in a cloth cap and wellies erupted from a barn, shouting. The boy protested shrilly and moved over as the man climbed up, noticing Miss Pink as he reversed but not acknowledging her. Sunshine lit the little boy’s hair which gleamed like polished mahogany. It was cut in a thick pudding basin thatch over a shorn base.
The tractor left the yard and started across the fields. Miss Pink transferred her attention to the house. She was seeing only the rear, but a neat and pleasing rear, the flagged roof sweeping down to the top of what would be kitchen windows, many-paned and sparkling clean, petunias vivid splashes of colour in baskets under the eaves. A large woman in a print overall emerged from the back door, carrying a bucket and chirruping. Hens came running over the cobbles. Miss Pink advanced to negotiate for eggs, and to confirm the last sighting of the missing woman. She winced at the thought. Last?
Mabel Swinburn said it was her husband who had seen Phoebe walk past the yard at nine o’clock. She’d waved but she hadn’t stopped. ‘It’s a rocky old track,’ she told Miss Pink, signalling disapproval of another old lady proposing to follow the same route. ‘Always clarty on top,’ she warned. ‘Easy enough to sprain an ankle.’
‘But there’s plenty of people about today,’ Miss Pink pointed out. ‘And I shall have perfect visibility. Besides, another pair of eyes on the search … One hates to think of a poor soul alone up there, injured, hoping desperately to be found.’ She was laying it on thick but the more one talked the more other people responded. What was ‘clarty’?
Mabel smiled tightly. ‘Hardly a poor soul.’ She looked beyond the visitor to the track. ‘She’s at home on the hill, she’s not afr
aid of anything, that one.’ The smile broadened. ‘People neither. She’s crossed swords with Swinburn a few times, I can tell you, and he’s not the only one. If Phoebe Metcalf sees someone doing owt she don’t approve of, she’s down on ’em like a ton of bricks.’
‘Really? A person with strong views.’
‘You can say that again.’ Mabel flushed and looked shifty. A plain, stolid countrywoman, she was disconcerted. ‘Like – speeding,’ she announced loudly. ‘And young Bobby there: on the tractor.’ She gathered herself, seemingly on firmer ground: ‘’Course, I’m one with Phoebe there: he should never be allowed to drive t’tractor at his age. Swinburn thinks I don’t know but I’ve seen ’em. Why, he can’t even reach the controls! There are some terrible accidents on farms, specially in hill country.’
‘Fathers do tend to spoil sons,’ Miss Pink murmured, blandly flattering. Mabel was pushing sixty so she would have to be the grandmother – but Mabel was suddenly furious.
‘He’s nowt to do wi’ me! He – comes over like, to play … he’s good with animals, helps out. He needs to get away from all his brothers and sisters down there.’ Miss Pink said nothing. ‘He’s from Sunder,’ Mabel added weakly; someone had to fill the silence. ‘Yon damp old place on t’beck.’
‘I only arrived yesterday.’ Miss Pink was soothing, ‘I haven’t had time to meet people. But I’m keeping you. I’ll come up for the eggs this evening.’
‘That way I’ll know you’ve returned safe.’ The tone was harsh.
‘Miss Salkeld knows my route.’
‘I’m surprised she didn’t come with you. She’s something of a walker herself.’
‘She’s expecting a lot of customers, with the searchers, and no doubt the media arriving, not that it’s been publicized that anyone’s missing.’
‘Someone will have rung the papers, get a few pounds for the tip-off. We can do without the media: blocking the lane with their traffic. Still, Eleanor will be glad of the trade, the tearoom’s been dead since the salmonella scare. A wicked thing, that was.’
