The Ambleside Alibi: 2 (19 page)

It was half past two when her father came in, jangling his car keys on the monstrous key ring in the shape of Mickey Mouse that he hoped would ensure he could always find them. It didn’t work, because it was uncomfortably large for a pocket, and so got plonked on any convenient surface, which might be hard to locate again.

‘Taxi, madam?’ he said. ‘If you’re ready.’

She was not wearing outdoor clothes, but the fleecy pyjamas her mother had brought in on Monday. They had been too warm for the hospital temperatures, but now they seemed the only option. Her father was holding a large carrier bag, which he opened. ‘Dressing gown,’ he announced. ‘As good as any coat.’

She tried not to visualise the figure she would cut, struggling across the car park on crutches, wearing a long red garment that would come close to dragging on the ground. The hospital people had produced her boots, that
she had been wearing on Sunday, and which had remained on her feet until she was fished from the ghyll. They had been soaked inside, but somebody had dried them out for her. They looked alien and misshapen and she had no wish to pull them on.

‘We’ll take you in a wheelchair,’ said one of the nurses, and a young man appeared with the empty chair. ‘You remember what we taught you about getting in and out of a car?’

She was handed a bag containing her original clothes, which had not been treated as kindly as had her boots. They were damp and dirty. The jeans had been cut apart to get at her damaged body quickly. She missed her bag with a sudden violence. Without it, she was less than human – a bruised body adrift in a snowy world, with nothing to show for her existence.

Outside, there was a thin white frosting on many surfaces, and the daylight was a threatening grey murk. The long sweep of grassy bank below the hospital was already a uniform white. ‘Shortest day on Monday,’ said her father, looking at the sky. ‘The roads are all right so far. It’s not freezing. We’ll be back before four and can batten down the hatches then.’

His calm was deceptive, she could tell. He was struggling to accomplish his task without mishap, his head full of instructions.

‘Sorry about this, Dad,’ she said. ‘I’m more of a handful than the cat, aren’t I?’

‘At least I’ve had some practice,’ he quipped. ‘It’ll be all right. You’re well on the mend – I can tell.’

They got her into the car and he reversed delicately out
of the parking space. ‘You could have left it closer,’ she observed. ‘Look – there’s a place over there for picking people up.’

‘So there is. I never noticed that.’

The roads were uncomfortably thronged with traffic, all trying to beat the onset of serious snow. There were large lorries, vans, family cars and the occasional minibus. Russell kept a careful distance from the vehicles ahead, and tried to maintain a confident tone, as he gave his habitual running commentary on the places they were passing. He had a Fleetwood Mac CD playing. It was an album from 1974, which Russell always said had been his favourite year of all years for music. Alan Price, the Scaffold, Eric Clapton, Roberta Flack – they were all household names for the Straws. Stuck in a forty-year time warp, Russell played their music to destruction, and then replaced the worn-out discs with the newest format, his car always loud with nostalgia. As they passed the sign to Bouth, he gave a happy cry. ‘This is where Christine McVie grew up,’ he yodelled. ‘I wanted to live there for years, so I could be close to her in spirit.’

‘But Mum wouldn’t let you,’ Simmy recited. She had heard the story many times, and even gone with him on a little pilgrimage, that summer. Bouth was less than ten miles from Windermere. Up to their left the ground rose gently to the Furness Fells. Another small road was signed to Rusland – where Mrs Kitchener had been buried.

‘Newby Bridge in a minute,’ said her father. ‘We’ve almost done it.’

The scenery was magical, an image from a Christmas card. Snow fell in light dancing flakes that had covered
the hedges with half an inch of white blanket. Shapes were blurring, landmarks disappearing. ‘I bet it’s bad in Troutbeck,’ said Simmy with a sigh.

‘Lucky you’re not up there, then. They say it’ll be three or four inches by morning.’

‘That doesn’t sound much.’

‘It doesn’t, does it,’ he agreed heartily. ‘The first winter we were here, it was fifteen inches in some places. Kentmere was completely cut off, I remember.’

‘I suppose they coped.’

‘Oh, yes. I think they rather enjoyed it. Lots of people like snow.’

‘I wish I did.’ It was true. What sense was there in moving to the snowy north, otherwise? ‘I think I just sort of forgot about it. I don’t remember much snow when I was little. It always seemed to happen somewhere else.’

The Straws had lived in Staffordshire for Simmy’s first ten years, then Gloucestershire. She remembered the winters as being almost balmy compared to those of recent years. Something had obviously changed, and she was still trying to keep up with it.

‘It’s very character-forming,’ Russell said, not for the first time. ‘Pulls you back to the basics, teaches you the value of things. Besides, Windermere’s going to be all right, whatever happens. The lake keeps things from getting too bad – especially this early in the winter.’

Simmy felt her character had taken more than enough moulding in the past week, and that snow could hardly effect any further battering. An image appeared of Ninian Tripp working with his clay, making shapes out of random lumps, like God making Adam. Was her character like
that – waiting to be formed by a cosmic hand? Was there some inscrutable Plan at work somewhere? She hoped not – that would only increase her sense of victimhood.

‘Is anything hurting?’ Russell asked, hearing her sigh.

‘Not really. Just an ache, all around here.’ She indicated her hips and front pelvic bone. ‘It’s not very bad.’

‘Fifteen more minutes at most,’ he promised. ‘We’ve made good time.’

Simmy was taken back to the hurried trip she had made down to Newby Bridge on Friday, before any snow had fallen, before she had been violently attacked, when the world had been a lot more dependable. It was an unremarkable little road, at the less scenic southern end of Lake Windermere. The water was visible, where it was hardly wider than a large river, with the tree-lined slopes on the further side of the lake now a pattern of black and white, light and shade. The surface was dark grey, absorbing the falling snow as if nothing were happening. As always, its presence seemed unreal to Simmy – the great body of water quietly lying there, watching the goings-on of the land creatures on its eastern flank. It was as if some other realm had been superimposed on the fells and ghylls, filling the crevices between them with a whole new element. Simmy was no swimmer and boats made her nervous. She saw very little connection between herself and the lake, other than an aesthetic one. She loved to pause and look at it, marvelling at the reflections and shifting colours. But with every passing week, it was creeping a little further beneath her skin, and now she felt a lift of her spirits at the sight of it. Lake Windermere was home, now; perhaps the only home she would know for the rest of her life.

The snowfall seemed lighter by the time they reached Bowness, with almost none sticking to the pavements and buildings. Lake Road, with the woods to the west, and the handsome Victorian villas set back from the road, was much as usual. But it was almost dark, and Simmy was tired and relieved to reach sanctuary. Just so long as her father managed to get the car in through the gate and safely parked close to the house, she didn’t care what the weather might do. She would stay indoors for a week and let everything just wash over her.

But her mother evidently had other ideas. From the first moment, she fired questions at the invalid, demanding decisions and preferences. ‘Are you hungry? Do you want a duvet or blankets? Is it warm enough? Have they given you painkillers? Is there a district nurse coming? Was it snowing much in Barrow? Did you hear the news about that earthquake in Syria? Do you need us to go to Troutbeck for anything? Are you going to want visitors here?’ On and on they went, with pauses for replies that only seemed to spawn further enquiries.

‘Stop it, Ange,’ begged Russell. ‘All this can wait for tomorrow. She’s tired.’

‘Yes. All right. Is the light all right for you in here? Will you want to read? Should I put a chamber pot under the bed?’

This last brought exasperation to the fore. ‘How do you think I’d manage that?’ Simmy snapped. ‘That’s a ludicrous idea.’

Angie blinked. ‘I have very little experience of crutches,’ she said tightly. ‘I don’t know what’s possible.’

‘Sorry, Mum. Neither do I. But it’s not too bad, actually. I can swing along quite well on the level. The downstairs
loo’s going to be fine.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Look – I can sit in the kitchen or the living room, and keep out of your way, until bedtime. You don’t have to fuss round me. I might get visitors, I suppose. I didn’t finish doing my Christmas cards, and all my presents are at the house.’

All
was an exaggeration. Being part of such a small family meant that she only bought gifts for her parents and Melanie. She had intended to get something for Ben, too, but could not think what he’d want, apart from computer games.

‘If it snows in the night, they’ll have to stay there, won’t they. Lucky I don’t have a pet to worry about,’ she added.

She felt jangled and cross. Far from making her feel like a cossetted child, her mother was relying on her for direction and information. And the worst of it was that she knew she was being unreasonable in her expectations. Angie really did have no idea what she should do. Russell was no better. Having performed his duty as a taxi driver, he appeared to think his work was done. He threw sympathetic looks at her and then disappeared into the kitchen.

Eventually, they settled down. Simmy lowered herself into a big comfortable chair that was always well supplied with cushions, and mainly used by the cat. Her fellow invalid was still in his nest in the hall, but had progressed to taking himself outside without an escort. His gait was wobbly and he’d got thinner, but there was no suggestion that he was in any pain.

Angie made a pot of tea and then dug a large container of frozen soup out of the freezer. ‘Beef and vegetable,’ she announced. ‘I made it months ago. It’s more like a stew, really. My mother always did it for winter evenings.’

‘Yes, I know.’ Simmy had cheerful memories of her grandmother’s soup-making skills. She had a variety for every occasion, ranging from crab and sweetcorn to an amazing minestrone. Angie’s talents were unfortunately very inferior, despite her best efforts to maintain the tradition. Her beef stew somehow never worked, for reasons nobody could identify.

They were still eating it when the doorbell rang. Russell went to answer it, and came back followed by two young people. ‘Visitors!’ he announced, as if it was the best thing that could possibly happen.

‘Hi, Simmy,’ said Melanie. ‘We had no idea you’d be home already. We came to see if we could do anything to help get ready for you.’

Ben stared at her, making no effort to hide his curiosity. ‘You look okay,’ he concluded.

‘You should see the bruises,’ she laughed, feeling suddenly buoyant. His eager step forward made her laugh even more. ‘No, no. I’m not going to show you. It wouldn’t be ladylike, given the places where they’re worst.’

‘I wanted to visit you in Barrow,’ he said urgently. ‘But there was no way I could. I’m not meant to be here now. It’s the dress rehearsal for the play tonight.’

‘Good God! What time does it start?’

‘Seven-thirty. It’ll be okay if I’m there an hour ahead. Even a bit less than that. The costume isn’t very complicated.’

‘He wears a tunic,’ Melanie told them. ‘I thought it should be a toga, but got that all wrong – didn’t I?’

‘Togas were only for the top people. I’m a prisoner. The tunic ought to be torn and dirty, really, but it’s okay.’

‘I had a look at the play,’ Melanie confided. ‘It says
Ferrovius is powerful with a big nose and a thick neck. Not sure they got the casting quite right.’ She poked Ben’s chest, and then waved a finger at his narrow adolescent neck.

‘It’ll be all in the acting,’ said Simmy loyally.

‘It’s a rubbish play, actually. Totally anti-Christian. There’ll be complaints.’ Melanie rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t know what they’re thinking of, putting that on at Christmas.’

‘What?’ Angie gave up trying to follow the thread. ‘What play is it then?’

‘
Androcles and the Lion
,’ said Ben. ‘It’s not very PC – but it makes you think. Any proper Christian would find it easy to argue their case. It’s pretty literal-minded. I think it was an inspired choice. And it’s quite funny. I do a take-off of a smarmy vicar, talking about washing souls and being meek and gentle. It’s all a joke, see. My character is really just a lump of brawn, trying to behave the way Jesus says he should.’

‘And does it work?’ asked Angie.

‘You’ll have to come along and see. There’s still a few tickets for tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got one for Saturday,’ Simmy remembered. ‘I was looking forward to it.’

‘A thing happened today,’ Melanie interrupted. ‘I was going to get your mum and dad to tell you about it tomorrow.’

‘What sort of a thing?’

‘My gran had a visitor. Penny Clark – that was. Nancy’s sister. What happened – Gran phoned her, just for a chat about old times. All that talk on Sunday stirred her up, and she thought she should get in touch with some old
mates. So Penny decided to pay a visit. She got a taxi all the way, because she can’t drive any more, and didn’t want her husband hanging about. She’s all in pieces because of the murder, and wanted to talk to someone about it. Her husband just keeps telling her not to think about it. Typical farmer. They never care much about death, do they?’

Nobody took her up on this observation, so she carried on. ‘Penny knows the Joseph girls, a bit.
Knew
them, anyway. My gran had the sense to sound her out, after all our questions about them. She’s not daft, my gran. She worked out that there’s some sort of mystery about them. And she’s no prude, either. Penny told her all about that Gwen woman, taking up with Nicola Joseph, years ago, and ruling her life ever since. She’s seen them about – they live up her way, and everybody talks about them.’