It’s a glorious afternoon and I stop to sit on my favourite green bench so I can take in Lake Ullswater in all its glory. Clusters of wild thyme are nestled amongst the grass near the water’s edge, replacing the daffodils that grow in abundance in the spring.
There’s a stillness about the water today that has a mesmerising effect if you stare at it long enough. The sun is streaming between trees that overhang the lake edge, creating an enchanting dappled shimmer. I watch a swallow dive and skitter across the water, sending ripples outwards. Adam and I often used to walk along this path in the late evening, where the only light came from the occasional beam of a car’s headlight as it slowly navigated the country lanes. I still miss those evenings together, and I feel a pang of sadness as I think about them.
Late summer is the busiest time of year in the Lake District and the recent unbroken hot spell has seen visitor numbers soar. There are endless queues for the lake steamers that transport people along the water to various villages. In Windermere, the main departure point, restaurants and bars are bursting at the seams with people enjoying food and cool drinks in the beer gardens while children excitedly feed ducks near the water’s edge. Tourists line up for the little ice cream kiosks with striped tarpaulin shades on the road that leads down to the lake. My guesthouse, here in Glenridding, is no exception – we’re packed to the rafters. I was born and bred in the Lakes and feel so lucky to have spent my childhood in such an idyllic location.
I’m savouring the last few minutes of my break when a family walk past. A girl, who can’t be much older than ten years old, lags behind and is soaked to the skin. Her arms are folded tightly across her chest and she has a thunderous-looking face for someone so small. The fair-haired boy, who looks a couple of years older, is walking in front and keeps turning around to smirk at her.
‘Good afternoon.’ I smile. ‘Beautiful day isn’t it?’
Try telling that to these two,’ says the mum, pointing at the kids and rolling her eyes. ‘We went canoeing on the lake and my daughter capsized. She wasn’t really expecting it,’ she tells me in a low voice.
‘Kids eh?’ I reply, wondering not for the first time if I will ever become a mother myself.
I look down at my watch. It’s time I headed back, so I get up from the green bench and follow in the same direction as the family.
‘He pushed me in the water!’ screams the slightly chubby-cheeked girl with the heavy blonde fringe, as she points at the boy.
‘No I never, you stood up too near the edge,’ the boy sniggers.
‘Mum, tell him, he’s laughing at me,’ says the girl, stamping her foot.
The boy, presumably her brother, lifts his hand to make an L for loser sign above his head, before running off to catch up with Dad, who is walking several yards in front of the family, carrying a canoe.
‘Dad, tell him!’ screeches the girl.
Eventually, the dad stops in front of Helvellyn House and opens the brown wooden gate to a six-bedroomed bay-fronted guesthouse, similar to mine, but painted soft pink. He looks at the children and sighs.
‘I’m telling you both, pack it in or we’re not going to the cinema in Ambleside tonight.’
They both fall silent as the boy pokes his tongue out at his sister.
I pick up a magazine for later from Val’s village store and arrive back at Lake View, my bed and breakfast business. What was once a grey and slightly dilapidated building is now an elegant cream Victorian residence with dark wooden window frames at the bay windows. The front garden, once sprouting nettles and wildflowers, is now a neat green lawn with a pretty cherry tree at the centre.
I pluck the deadheads from two hanging baskets filled with mixed peonies, nestled either side of a highly polished red front door. As I search in my handbag for the keys, I take a moment to admire the brass knocker I salvaged from an antiques fair in Keswick, a nearby market town. The sign in the window shows ‘No Vacancies’ and the sight of it makes me feel so lucky to live in such a special place and for things to be finally working out. There’s no way I would ever have dreamed that I would be running a B&B in the Lake District with my younger sister Hannah.
I finally manage to locate my front door key, when Hannah sprints into view wearing her black and pink Lycra running gear, not a hair out of place on her short platinum crop as she bounces along. She comes to a halt right next to me, then bends forwards and places her hands on her knees.
‘Jeez, I think I should stick to fell walking. This running lark is bad for my health,’ she wheezes.
‘Well maybe you should save the running for the cooler weather. I couldn’t run for a bus in this heat, never mind around the lake.’
‘That’s ’cos you’re not as fit as me. I could always beat you in a race,’ she teases.
‘That’s because you’ve got more of an athlete’s build than me,’ I say, jokingly, running my hand down my shapely figure.
‘Are you trying to say I look like a boy?’
‘Alright, girls!’ Paul Barlow says with a wink as he walks past. Paul thinks he’s God’s gift to women and today he’s dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved white T-shirt that shows off his muscular, tattooed arms.
‘I could help you work up a good sweat, Hannah,’ leers Paul, ogling Hannah’s trim figure.
‘I bet you could. But I’m very choosy about who I do a horizontal workout with.’
‘Ooh filthy mind, you. I was thinking more of the gym at the hotel across the road, show you some weight training.’
‘No you’re alright thanks, I don’t want muscles. One Sylvester Stallone in the village is enough.’
‘Oi, he’s an old man, not a thirty-two-year-old prime specimen like me. I’ll still take it as a compliment though,’ laughs Paul as he sweeps back his dark hair.
Paul returned to Glenridding recently following a break-up, but when his mum passed away last year, I think his dad, Thomas, was glad to have Paul around again. Paul’s a nice bloke really. Soft as putty deep down and the type that would do anything for anyone. He just peddles this muscle man persona about the village, which is only ever going to attract the wrong type of woman.
‘See you later, gorgeous,’ he growls, before heading off towards the pub.
‘Not if I see you first,’ says Hannah under her breath.
We both burst out laughing. I’m about to head back to work, when I’m interrupted by a desperate cry.
‘Gina, hold up a minute,’ shouts Rob, the gardener from the large hotel over the road.
He and my friend Katy, a receptionist at the hotel, are heading towards us, carrying a girl with long dark hair whose head is lolling forward.
‘Gina,’ says Katy breathlessly. ‘We need to get Ellie to hospital.’
‘Oh my God, what on earth has happened?’ I ask, as I recognise the fifteen-year-old local girl who lives a few streets away.
‘Well she drank this for a start,’ says Katy, waving an empty vodka bottle. ‘I found her staggering near the edge of the lake at the hotel when I nipped out for a smoke. I rang for an ambulance but they’ll be forty-five minutes. The drive there is only twenty minutes but I can’t leave the hotel reception.’
Before she can finish her plea, I’ve opened the door of my car so Katy and Rob can help Ellie onto the back seat.
‘No worries,’ I say, leaping into the front seat to turn the engine on.
‘I’ll take care of everything at Lake View this afternoon and inform Ellie’s mum,’ Hannah says reassuringly.
‘Oh and I’m not sure about these,’ says Katy, heading over towards the car window and handing me an empty foil paracetamol packet. ‘I asked her if she’d taken any but she wasn’t making any sense. She kept on muttering about someone called Mark, saying she couldn’t bear to be without him. Sounds like boyfriend trouble, poor girl.’
As we make our way along the winding country lanes to Carlisle, I try to keep my focus both on the road and on Ellie. What if she vomits? I think, chucking a plastic bag from the footwell onto the seat behind me, hoping she has the sense to understand why. I start panicking and put my foot down – praying to God that Ellie will be OK.
Twenty-five minutes later we arrive at Carlisle hospital. I pull up outside the hospital entrance and try to attract the attention of anyone who’ll listen. A kindly woman in her twenties, who’s staring at her phone outside, comes to the rescue.
‘Can you hold the door open, and then we’ll need to lift her under her arms to carry her.’ Ellie is limp but conscious, and as soon as the three of us enter the A&E department, we’re greeted by red lights showing an approximate waiting time of two hours. Great.
‘Excuse me, I know you’re busy but we have a situation—’ I squeal to the receptionist. But before I can finish speaking, Ellie is despatched to a cubicle, where a middle-aged nurse in a navy uniform swiftly appears. She begins to ask Ellie some questions but the girl is mumbling incoherently.
‘Do you know if it’s just alcohol she’s consumed?’ asks the nurse.
‘No idea, a friend found her near the water’s edge stumbling along with the empty bottle. She found this on the floor,’ I say, handing her the empty foil packet.
The nurse attaches a blood pressure cuff to Ellie’s arm as she begins her appraisal of her medical state. Ellie begins to mumble.
‘Mark, why can’t I see you over the summer?’ she slurs before lapsing into silence.
‘Ellie, who’s Mark?’ asks the nurse gently.
At that moment, a distraught woman bursts through into the A&E department, still wearing her slippers.
‘Where’s Ellie?’ she cries.
‘We’re here.’ I wave, recognising the hospital whirlwind as Ellie’s mum, Lynn.
‘Oh my baby, what’s happened?’
Ellie lifts her mascara-streaked face. ‘He said he won’t be able to see me over the summer. Six whole weeks. I can’t bear it.’
She rolls over to the side of the bed before vomiting violently all over the floor.
‘That’s good,’ says the nurse, pulling a large sheet of blue paper from a roller on the wall, placing it over the vomit on the floor.
Once we are informed that Ellie is out of any imminent danger, we leave her with the nurse and I usher a stricken Lynn over to the café.
‘I wish I knew what was going on with her. I don’t even know who this Mark is. I asked her to invite him over for tea once, but she just rolled her eyes and told me not to be so embarrassing. She doesn’t tell me anything much these days,’ she says, with a wistful look in her eyes.
‘Is it someone from school?’ I ask.
‘Yes it is. At least I think so,’ Lynn replies, weeping into her coffee.
It’s almost seven o’clock and Hannah and I are sharing a bottle of wine in our small flagged garden space outside the annexe, which is an extension of the bed and breakfast. It’s a balmy evening with a pink-tinged sky overhead, bringing the promise of more sunshine tomorrow.
‘Poor Ellie. I can’t believe she thought someone was worth ending her life for.’
‘You know what’s strange, though? Lynn didn’t know who Ellie’s boyfriend was.’
‘Really? That’s odd. The only Mark I know in the village is Mark Spencer, the history teacher,’ says Hannah, as she takes a handful of peanuts from a bowl.
‘No, it couldn’t be, could it?’ I sigh, taking a large glug of white wine.
‘Isn’t he married?’ Hannah asks.
‘He is, yes. So it can’t be him, surely?’
‘Although he is going to France for the whole of the summer holidays, which would explain why Ellie couldn’t see him…’
‘Either way, Ellie’s obviously unhappy. Maybe she could help out here, take her mind off things. I could do with someone to help me with the breakfasts in the morning, all I have at the moment is you.’ I push Hannah on the arm and we both chuckle.
‘That’s a good idea, and it might be worth mentioning something to Ellie’s mum. I mean, if Mark isn’t in her class – it might be Mr Spencer?’
‘I think it certainly needs checking out. If he’s got nothing to hide, then it’s fine isn’t it?’
‘I think so. It could just be a teenage crush, but I think Lynn still needs to know,’ Hannah says reassuringly.
We’ve got a full guesthouse at the moment, which means an early start tomorrow, so we finish our drinks and head inside. I’ll probably have to leave the windows open to get to sleep in this heat. I think of young Ellie. I hope she sleeps well tonight.
The breakfast things are cleared away and it’s only quarter to ten which is the best scenario for us. The residents were all early risers, sitting down to their breakfast at eight o’clock before going out for the day, making the most of the good weather. We serve breakfast up until ten but there are always those couples that stroll into the breakfast room at 9.50 looking bleary-eyed and slightly hungover, ready to hoover up the remains of the breakfast buffet.
I love the light and airy breakfast room mostly because of the views across the garden towards the beautiful peaks. We have light oak tables that match the floor and beige studded high-back chairs. The floor-length French windows that lead out to the garden are draped in light green curtains. Cream-coloured walls are adorned with black and white photographs of movie stars past and present. It took Adam and I a while to get this space just right, but now it’s one of my favourite rooms in the house.
After the breakfast rush, I tidy up the guest bedrooms. As I straighten up the rooms, I set about placing fresh flowers in vases in each of the six rooms which are all named after famous poets. It’s one of my favourite bits of the job, adding the finishing touches, and as I sit in the window seat of the Wordsworth room, I stare out at the verdant green peaks. Down the hall, I can hear Hannah singing along to a Beyoncé song on the radio while she’s busy packing for a hen party weekend in Liverpool. Much as I like her friends from university, I live in fear that every meeting she has with them will ignite a desire in her to leave the village again. We’re similar in so many ways, but Hannah has always had a sense of adventure. We both grew up around here but I can’t help thinking that she has had her wings clipped. After studying English Literature at Lancaster Uni, she travelled to France and around Europe. When she returned, she spent a year or two working for a children’s charity in Carlisle and was contemplating a trip to Asia, when my life fell apart. When Adam died everything stopped.
I silently admonish myself for having such selfish thoughts about Hannah leaving, when she bursts through the bedroom door.
‘Slacking again, eh, sis?’ she teases, as she picks up a blue and silver cushion from the bed and hurls it at me.
‘Oi! I’ve just plumped those cushions up. Anyway, I’m not the one who’s off gallivanting to Liverpool, am I?’
‘Well I did ask you. Maybe you could do with a break. Dad would have helped out.’
‘I’m sure Dad would have but I don’t like to abuse his generosity unless it’s a special occasion. Trawling the streets of Liverpool drunkenly, carrying inflatable willies, doesn’t really qualify.’
‘Oh and Lynn just called,’ says Hannah. ‘Ellie’s being discharged today after she’s had a chat with a nurse from the mental health team.’
‘Thank God she’s OK. They don’t think it was attempted suicide, do they?’
‘She didn’t say. I think it’s procedure after someone’s been admitted after drinking too much. Talking of alcohol, I’m going to grab a bottle of Chardonnay from the wine rack – I’ll replace it.’ She grins.
She disappears downstairs and a few minutes later I pad down my thickly carpeted stairs but stop mid-way when I hear a loud crashing sound coming from the kitchen, followed by an expletive.
I tentatively walk into the kitchen and immediately notice that my white soup tureen has smashed onto the flagstone floor and my heart sinks a little. It was a wedding present from Adam’s parents and even though I rarely use it, I’m saddened to see it shattered all over the kitchen floor.
‘Sorry, sis,’ says a sheepish Hannah. ‘Although to be fair, you never use it. It’s always sat on the shelf. Who uses soup tureens these days anyway apart from the queen?’ she laughs.
She smiles that huge Julia Roberts smile that lights up the whole of her pretty face and I instantly forgive her.
I survey the mess on the kitchen floor. The ladle sits defiantly intact amongst the debris like a soldier that has survived a battle. Shards of ceramic are strewn everywhere.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say, trying hard to hide my disappointment. ‘Let’s get this lot cleared away then we can go and have a coffee in the garden.’
The long garden at the B&B looks out towards Helvellyn, a soaring peak which attracts serious walkers. The lawn is dotted with several green wrought-iron table and chair sets, where we serve breakfast during the fine weather. Once I’ve set the place straight, there’s nothing I enjoy more than having this quiet corner of the garden to myself. Well, with Hannah.
A strong sun is beating down and bathes the garden flowers in a glorious golden hue. These August days are long and sultry, and the evenings end with red skies promising yet more sunshine the following day. Families will return to us tonight with exhausted, rosy-cheeked children, carrying fishing nets on sticks. In the early evening I like to escape to my favourite green bench, overlooking the river, to watch the red kites and swallows circle overhead ready to swoop in search of fish.
I pour us both some coffee from a cafetière and we share a home-baked chocolate brownie as Hannah peruses the bookings in a ledger.
‘I’m sorry about the soup tureen, sis. It must seem like a little bit of Adam has disappeared.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ I say, sipping my coffee. ‘They’re only possessions, aren’t they? When someone you love dies, it makes you realise that material things don’t matter at all.’
‘I think Adam would be so proud of you,’ says Hannah, reaching across the table and grabbing my hand. ‘You’re doing a great job here, as you can see from all the glowing TripAdvisor reviews.’
‘We’re doing a great job. I couldn’t do it without you.’
‘No that’s true,’ laughs Hannah, never one for false modesty.
‘Anyway, back to business,’ I say.
‘Ever the professional! There’s a Marco Gallardo from South America arriving around lunchtime. He’s coming alone,’ Hannah says, scanning the bookings and frowning slightly.
When Hannah first arrived. . .
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