The Ambleside Alibi: 2 Read online

  ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘Yeah, course it is. I finish at college in the summer. Then I’m getting a live-in job in a hotel. I’ve started looking round. I told you.’

  Melanie’s ambitions had always been clearly spelt out to Simmy. Floristry was a part-time stopgap, a means of earning extra cash between lectures and tutorials. ‘You’re the only place in town with the right hours,’ she had said frankly. ‘And it’s not completely irrelevant.’

  But nothing specific had been said about when her availability would end, and Simmy realised that over the past month or two she had come to value the girl more and more. Her manner with customers could be impatient, and her flair for flowers was limited to an acute sensitivity to wastage. She would fiercely resist throwing away anything with a hint of a brown edge or a wilting leaf, despite Simmy’s frequent explanations that it was bad for business to offer stuff that wasn’t fresh. Melanie liked strong scents and flamboyant colours, but had very little ability when it came to arrangements, even in a roughly assembled bunch, such as they sold for people to compose their own final bouquet.

  Now the prospect of losing her in another eight or nine months’ time made Simmy feel sad. ‘I’ll miss you when you leave,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it won’t be for ages yet,’ sighed Melanie.

  Chapter Nine

  Simmy briefly called in on her parents once she’d locked up the shop. They lived in Lake Road, where Simmy often left her car as an easy place to park for the day.

  Her father answered the door quickly, putting a finger to his lips to tell her to be quiet. ‘Don’t disturb my patient,’ he whispered. ‘Just go quietly into the kitchen, will you.’

  She had forgotten the injured cat. ‘How is he?’

  ‘Mending slowly, poor old boy. He’s a wonderfully good patient.’ Russell Straw smiled bleakly, his eyes moist. Simmy couldn’t remember seeing him so emotional about an animal before. They had always owned a motley assortment of rescued dogs and cats; ill-disciplined creatures who jumped on furniture and stole food that was left out. Angie’s B&B was run on dangerously unhygienic lines, as a result. And yet very few visitors objected and the bookings diary was nearly always full. It was a surprisingly good living, especially as neither Russell nor Angie seemed interested in spending money. She was busy cooking, changing bedding, vacuuming carpets, while he was a keen gardener and avid reader. Once in a while they would go out to see a film, if they could escape their responsibilities.

  The cat was confined to a large makeshift bed at the end of the passageway from the front door to the kitchen. A fireguard had been erected, and the space filled with old blankets. In the middle of this a half-naked animal lay curled. Much of his hair had been removed from all around his pelvis and back legs, and black stitches were visible. ‘Don’t touch him!’ warned Russell.

  ‘I wasn’t going to. He does look a mess.’

  ‘You should have seen him when it happened. They’ve done wonders with him, considering.’

  ‘What happens when he needs to pee?’

  ‘I carry him out to the garden, and he squats down on the bean patch. He’s amazingly good about it. He seems to understand what’s going on.’

  ‘Nine lives,’ she murmured.

  ‘He’ll need them.’

  ‘I never knew you were so fond of him.’

  ‘Me neither. But he’s always been such an inoffensive creature, and very affectionate. I hate to see him in such a state. The dog’s been worrying about him as well.’

  The dog was a small elderly Lakeland terrier who spent most of his time in a basket in the kitchen. He had been acquired from a rescue centre when he was already in middle age, and showed every sign of contentedly living out his days as peacefully as possible. He had never caused the slightest trouble, which explained why the Straws had seen no reason to register with a vet. Russell sporadically walked him around the local streets, but his chief source of occupation was digging in a half-made rockery that Russell had been forced to abandon to the dog’s craving for excavation. When his feet got sore, he would turn to chasing a semi-resident squirrel across the garden, which he did almost every morning. Simmy and he largely ignored each other, in a fond sort of way.

  They moved into the kitchen, leaving the cat in peace. ‘So what’s what?’ Russell asked, as he often did. ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Not bad. A new wedding turned up this afternoon. She seems keen to spend a lot of money.’

  ‘That’s good.’ He nodded comfortably. As far as Simmy could ascertain, her father had never much worried about her. He had been saddened by the death of the baby, making no secret of the personal loss he felt at being thwarted of grandfatherhood. He had winced at Simmy’s separation from Tony, and then welcomed her with undemonstrative ease when she opted to move to the same town as her parents. He had listened to her plans and offered advice, and never once criticised anything she did. He provided a broad chest on which she had cried a few times in recent turbulent years, with no hint of embarrassment. If anybody ever asked her about him, Simmy would assert with complete confidence that he was the perfect father in every respect.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  He looked round as if half expecting his wife to be lurking in a corner of the kitchen. The large cooker, dishwasher and fridge took up a lot of space. Preparing full English breakfasts for up to ten people at a time required a lot of equipment and considerable efficiency. The kitchen was the heart of the operation, with high-quality equipment and only the best ingredients. Racks of eggs stood in the pantry, with locally produced bacon, sausages, black pudding and mushrooms all stockpiled in great quantities. ‘We ought to offer kippers and haddock as well,’ sighed Russell. ‘But we decided that was asking too much.’ The freezer was carefully stacked with sliced bread and emergency cartons of milk, as well as the bacon and sausages. Boxes full of breakfast cereal and jars of marmalade and jam occupied a sideboard in the dining room. Simmy was still marvelling at the logistical challenges required to accommodate and feed a constantly changing succession of guests, and the apparent ease with which her parents had risen to meet them.

  ‘Out, I suppose. I can’t remember what she said.’

  ‘Any customers tonight?’

  ‘Of course. When are there not? We’ve had to be ruthless to turn them away over Christmas – I told you.’

  ‘I feel sorry for people trying to escape from their families. Where are they supposed to go?’

  He laughed. ‘I don’t care. All I know is, we’re not prepared to shelter them. You sound as if you’d like to escape yours as well.’ He gave her a look from under his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘Not a bit of it. Where would I go? I escaped to mine, remember?’

  ‘Tony used to be your family,’ he said in a sad, soft voice.

  ‘Don’t, Dad. I can’t even bear to think about this time last year. You can’t imagine how awful it was, and how much better it is here. I’m going to bring crackers and balloons and a big jigsaw, and we’re going to be silly and irresponsible for two whole days.’

  ‘Sounds exhausting.’

  The back door opened and Angie strode in carrying an assortment of bags. ‘Where did you go?’ asked her husband.

  ‘Kendal. I told you. Christmas shopping.’

  ‘On a Saturday afternoon? Are you mad? Isn’t that when everybody else goes?’ Her husband stared at her.

  ‘Not entirely everybody. But I like the crowds. It’s a wonderful atmosphere with all the decorations and carols. Gets me in the mood very nicely. Oh – P’simmon, you’re here. Don’t look at my parcels. I’m going to go and hide them.’ She hugged the bags closer and went up the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Such energy,’ moaned Russell. ‘She makes me feel so ancient sometimes.’

  Simmy gave him a close inspection. ‘You do look tired,’ she noted. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Not sleeping as well as I used to, that’s all. Latest expert opinion says it doesn’t matter, and nothing to wo
rry about, but it does leave me in need of a nap, come teatime. Not always possible, of course.’

  Her mother was back in under ten minutes, rolling up her sleeves. ‘Staying for supper?’ she asked Simmy.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Not bad,’ she repeated.

  ‘A new wedding,’ put in her father. ‘Lots of money to spend.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Angie. ‘It’ll soon be a whole year, won’t it?’

  ‘Since I moved here, yes. But the shop didn’t open till March, if you remember. Gosh, that was chaotic, wasn’t it. I don’t know how I did it, looking back.’

  Angie shrugged. ‘Oh – I’ve got a message for you. That boy, Ninian something. He was in one of the shops just now. Said to tell you he got called away and couldn’t bring his pots as arranged. He’ll try again one day next week.’

  Simmy blinked. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘Oh – I don’t remember. He has stalls at the craft fairs, that sort of thing. I’ve chatted to him a few times.’

  ‘He’s hardly a boy. He must be at least forty.’

  ‘No, no, he’s thirty-six. He told me. His birthday’s the same as mine.’

  ‘I’m amazed.’

  ‘How could you think he was as old as that? He looks about twenty-five to me.’

  ‘How did he know you were my mother?’

  ‘I told him, of course. I suggested he show you some vases. It looks as if he followed up on it.’

  ‘He never said.’ Simmy was left feeling oddly exploited, knowing there’d been a plan forged behind her back. ‘Are the pots nice?’

  ‘Gorgeous, obviously. You’ll love them. Big black matt things, with blobs and swirls stuck on. Terribly tasteful. They need to reach a wider public. If I had space, I might have been tempted to put a little display up here somewhere.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem very reliable.’ Resentment was bubbling gently in the depths, for reasons that remained obscure. Ninian Tripp had changed for her in those few seconds, now he turned out to be her mother’s discovery. ‘I was expecting him yesterday.’

  ‘Don’t be petulant, pet,’ cautioned her father. It was something he said quite often. ‘Who is this bloke, anyway? First I’ve heard of him.’

  ‘He’s a potter,’ Simmy said.

  ‘That much I already gathered. A potter born under the sign of Leo, with appealing wares. Must be dozens of them.’ He waved an airy hand. ‘You haven’t asked after the cat,’ he reproached his wife.

  ‘You’d have told me if it was dead. I assumed there was no change.’

  ‘Quite right,’ he agreed peaceably. He addressed Simmy. ‘You heard the weather forecast, did you?’

  It was the first time she’d thought of weather for at least a day. ‘No,’ she said warily.

  ‘Light snow,’ he said. ‘Nothing to panic about. But you shouldn’t leave it too late to get home.’

  She swallowed the childish urge to plead for a bed with them. She couldn’t just abandon her own house at the first hint of difficulty. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Right.’

  ‘Is your heating on?’ Angie asked. ‘You don’t want the pipes to freeze.’

  ‘They’re well lagged. I’m more worried about roads than pipes.’ She visualised the route home, with all the hilly bends and narrow junctions. The likelihood of sliding sideways or backwards on an invisible sheet of ice made her shudder. It seemed impossibly difficult from the comparative security of a Windermere street.

  ‘You’ll be fine. It won’t be bad until sometime tomorrow. Just a sprinkling,’ Russell assured her. ‘You live up there, Sim. You’ve got to get used to it. You’ll enjoy it in the end, young and strong as you are. It’s good to have a bit of hardship around the edges. We’ve all got much too soft.’

  It was a familiar refrain, and she had always vaguely agreed with him. But she also suspected it was based much more on theory than practice. Russell Straw had not known a lot of hardship in his life, and he only walked the fells in sunshine. He had no more resilience than the next man when it came to snowy slopes or power cuts in icy weather. Simmy gritted her teeth and said nothing.

  A meal was quickly produced and eaten. B&B guests came and went, summoning Angie to query a dietary detail for their breakfast. Simmy registered, for the hundredth time, how utterly disruptive to normal life it was to throw open one’s home to a constant succession of strangers. They used lavatory paper at a prodigious rate; they stole towels and soap; they ate sausage rolls in their rooms and left greasy crumbs all over the bed. They shouted at each other and let doors slam. But Angie persisted in liking them and tolerating their quirks. She had allotted a downstairs room to them, where they could play games or watch TV in a communal fashion that generated friendships and fierce political arguments in equal measure. Children formed alliances, adults compared notes and walking maps. A constant low level of chaos prevailed at Beck View, especially when guests came trailing dogs and young babies. Angie permitted smoking, as a final act of defiance, even though she scarcely indulged the habit herself. Some unwitting guests found this quite extraordinarily perverse, and made loud complaints. Most of them found their way eagerly to Beck View for this very reason.

  At seven-thirty, Simmy was ready to brave the elements. She went to the back door and looked out. The air was still and only faintly chilly. ‘No snow yet,’ she reported, back in the kitchen.

  ‘Off you go, then,’ encouraged her father. ‘While the going’s good.’

  Her car was parked close by, its windows free of frost. There was no reason to hesitate, or to quail at the prospect of driving home. Her house was four miles away by road, less by footpath. She had walked it many a time. It was practically next door by Lakeland standards. She set off with a backward wave at her father, who stood watching her from his front doorstep.

  Before she reached the turn off to Troutbeck, there were tiny white specks in the beam of her headlights. A mile further on, at Thickholme, the specks had become swirling flakes. At the turning by the church, where the road became little more than a track rising steeply up to the main street of her village, she could see a faint white frosting on the hedges. When she finally pulled in beside her little cottage, the ground was already changing colour. Doggedly, she repeated her father’s mantra, We’ve all got far too soft. Mankind had survived an ice age, after all. The human body, given a modicum of warm insulation made of wool, could withstand astonishing degrees of cold. So what was she afraid of?

  The answer was always the same. She was afraid of the claustrophobia of being trapped in a snowdrift, of losing control of her car, and – most shamefully – of being dependent on other people. It came, she supposed, from being the only child of self-reliant parents. They had expected her to carve her own way through life, and only offered help on the most minimal of terms. She did not want a local farmer to tow her out of a snowy ditch. She didn’t want some team of Troutbeck stalwarts to bring her bread and milk. She should not, by rights, be living there at all.

  The solution to these concerns was to maintain a well-stocked freezer, to lag the pipes properly and keep the most sturdy of tyres on her car. All these she had done. And besides, she persuaded herself, this was only a sprinkling of dusty snow, not enough to cause more than a fleeting concern. She tried to turn her thoughts around, whereby the snow created a cosy blanket around her and her neighbours. They would be closed to visitors, forced to accept some inactivity. Life would reduce to essentials. She would light a log fire and bake potatoes in the embers. The phone would still work, and the electricity probably stay connected. Only in the harshest of storms did the power go off these days. Everything would look pretty – especially the fells – after a moderate snowfall. Children would have snowball fights and dogs would dash round in delirious circles. And then it would all go away again, and everyone would be happy.

  She let herself into the house and turned on all the lights. She closed the curtains and switched on the TV. The next day
was Sunday and she did not have to be anywhere. She could read, write more Christmas cards, perhaps phone Julie, and generally be a slob for a day. If there was an inch of snow on the roads, it would have been driven over many times before she had to brave it on Monday. Everything would be fine – not just her father had said so, but Melanie, too.

  Chapter Ten

  At first when she woke on Sunday, it seemed that her optimism had been justified. She could hear voices outside, as well as a car driving past. The world had not frozen to a standstill, then. There were not six-foot drifts burying all the cars and imprisoning the population in their homes.

  But the voices sounded oddly urgent, a man shouting and a young woman replying in a high pitch. Simmy went to the window of her bedroom and looked out. There definitely was snow. It was on roofs and cars, trees and stone walls. But the road had snowless tracks that revealed the dark surface, blessedly free of ice. Only the middle was still snowy. The people were standing on the other side of the narrow road, looking down the slope to the east, where there was a gap between walls. Simmy couldn’t see the object of their attention, but she heard a man say, ‘We’ll have to see if we can push it.’ Another man replied, ‘Better to get a tractor.’ A vehicle, then, had left the road, and was somehow stuck. The slope was gentle at that point, the accident apparently not serious. But it could have been me, Simmy thought with a shiver. She closed the window and quickly got dressed. The view from her bedroom was of the fells to the east, the church tower just visible in its hollow, crags mistily to the north. There was snow up there, its depth hard to gauge. Kirkstone might be closed; Garburn an unthinkable exercise. Her father’s projected walk now seemed close to insanity.