I have no warning that anything bad is going to happen to me today. No premonition. No sense of something shifting in the shadows of my mind. As far as I’m concerned, this day is the same as the one before except for the swathes of purple bluebells that have appeared, as if by magic, beneath the trees that line the roadside.
The village shop is a mere ten minutes from my terraced cottage in the shadow of Langdon Fell and I’m enjoying the walk, pleased to have a break from soldering clasps onto the ends of silver bracelets in my workshop. Sometimes, on days when the rain sets in, dragging the sky down to meet the Cumbrian peaks, it’s easy to believe that it will never stop. It’s not like that today, though. Today is beautiful, a whisper of spring on its breath. The unfurling of the leaves, and the return of the birds to the hedgerow, a reminder that I’ve emerged safely from another winter.
Deep down inside, I still feel like me. Nothing has changed. I’m still Leona, mother of Beth. Leona, wife of Scott. Wife. Although it’s in name only, as we’ve never signed a marriage contract, I like to call myself that. A piece of paper won’t make me love him any more than I already do.
As I walk, I trail my hand along the swags of blackthorn blossom at the side of the road. Seen from a distance, the hedgerow looks as if it’s been covered in a light dusting of snow – the blackthorn winter, the locals call it. Scott tells me it’s because the white blossom often appears at the same time as the bitterly cold weather that turns the mountains of the Lake District white. It’s not cold today though and, if I choose to turn and look back the way I’ve just come, I know the snow that’s been clinging to the peaks all winter will have all but disappeared.
There’s no one else walking this way and only one solitary car has passed me. It’s how I like it and I savour the feeling of contentment. Hugging it to me as though it were a newborn. Contentment. The word conjures up images of sleeping dogs or grandmothers nodding over their knitting, but it will do for me. I’ll take contentment over the alternative any day.
High above me, in the light blue sky, a bird of prey hovers, wings spread. It’s seen its prey, somewhere in the scrubby grass and is waiting for its moment. I watch it until it gives up and soars away.
Unzipping my red walking jacket, I free myself from its waterproof prison, pulling my arms out of the sleeves and stuffing the coat into my shopping bag. I carry on, past the row of seventies houses high on the grassy slope to my left, their small glass porches overlooking the valley, and past the entrance to the campsite at Blackstone Farm. Last week there were only a few tents in the field up by the wash block. Today, I notice, more have sprung up like multicoloured mushrooms.
There are few people about. It’s Friday afternoon and most of the locals are at work. Not that many people actually live in the village now: most of the properties that cluster around the church are holiday rentals. I pass a cottage with a blue plaque on the wall telling anyone who happens to stop and read it that it’s owned by Love the Lakes Holidays. If I look through its window, I know I’ll see a cold slate floor with maybe a rag rug beneath a stripped pine dining table. And it’s a safe bet its stark white walls will be hung with pictures of Coniston Water or the fells in their splendid autumn colours.
It’s what the visitors expect, but we locals prefer a warm carpet to step onto when we come downstairs in the morning to make our tea. Not that I’m really a local. I guess it takes more than nine years to be classed as that.
A strand of blonde hair blows across my face and I tuck it behind my ear. I should probably have it cut, but Scott likes it like this. My ‘Rapunzel look’ he calls it and, in a way, I think it suits me. My life is, after all, like a fairy tale – one made famous by the Brothers Grimm, not Disney.
As I walk, I’m humming. I’m not aware of the tune to start with – it’s not the type of thing you’d hear on the radio and Beth would probably never even have heard of it. It’s only as the words start to form in my head that I realise what the song is. The melody is haunting, dragging me back to a time I’ve tried to forget so, before that can happen, I force myself to hum something else.
In a field beyond the drystone wall that follows the edge of the village, a group of lambs stand with their mothers. I stop and watch them, my elbows resting on the hard, grey slate, fascinated by their spindly legs and bottle-brush tails. A little one with a black face races its sibling to an outcrop of rock, where it stands for a moment before running back to its mother and searching for her teat.
It’s that picture I have in my mind as I push open the door of the small village shop and nod a hello to Graham Hargreaves who’s leaning against the counter, a copy of the Westmorland Gazette spread out in front of him. The top of his bent head shows a round bald patch that shines in the sunlight that’s coming through the window.
‘Want a basket?’
Without taking his eyes off the page, he leans over and lifts one from its metal cradle. I take it from him.
‘Thanks.’
Still there’s nothing to make me concerned. No warning sign. No aura. In fact, as I move between the narrow aisles of tinned peas and boxes of cat food, the random assortment of goods you find in a local village shop such as this, I have a smile on my lips, the lamb’s cute black face still in my mind.
‘Need help to find anything?’ He always asks me this, even though he’s seen me shop here nearly every day since he took over three years ago.
‘No. I’m fine.’
Pulling a scrap of paper out of the back pocket of my jeans, I run my finger down the short list to see what it is I need to buy. There’s no order to the shop, or not one that I’ve ever worked out. Kitchen rolls are wedged up against boxes of Rice Krispies and bottles of anti-dandruff shampoo, and I have to step around the economy-sized packets of loo roll and bottled water that have been placed on the floor, being careful not to dislodge things as I pass. I put a carton of orange juice into my basket and let my mind drift to the afternoon ahead. There’s a silver bracelet that still needs finishing and the last of an earring and necklace set in a silver leaf design, ready for the craft fair in Ambleside.
The eggs are on a shelf next to me. Lifting a box down, I open the lid to check them. One by one, I take each egg out of its cardboard nest, making sure none are cracked. But, as I lift the last one out, it slips through my fingers, falling to the floor with a soft crack that makes me wince. I don’t move – just stare at the yellow yolk as it spreads across the tiles, mingling with the glutinous albumen. Bile rises and I cover my mouth with my hand. I look over at Graham, scared he’ll be annoyed.
‘No need to worry. I’ll sort it.’ With a scrape of metal on stone, he gets up from his stool and comes over, clutching a wodge of blue kitchen paper and a plastic bag to his chest. With a grunt, he kneels and, with a sweep of his hand, cleans up what he can. I turn away, unable to watch.
‘Here.’ He hands me another box of eggs. ‘Take this one instead.’
Trying to empty my mind, I follow Graham to the till and lift my basket into its cradle, relieved that the nausea has passed. There’s a basket of overpriced, cellophane-covered fudge on the counter, each bag tied with a curl of red ribbon. The fudge, along with the postcards that hang from a rack by the door and the boxes of shortbread biscuits with their pictures of Windermere and Colwith Force on the front, is meant for the tourists. Visitors who have already started to arrive in Church Langdon in cars and camper vans full of walking boots and gaiters. Visitors my husband Scott needs if he’s to make a living.
‘Want to try a piece?’ Graham pushes a plate of misshapen brown pieces towards me. Samples to entice people to buy.
‘No, thank you, but I’ll get some for Beth.’
I add the fudge, in its crinkly wrapping, to my basket before remembering that, in the last few weeks, my daughter has been on some sort of health kick. I presume it’s just a phase she’s going through, but recently I’ve been worried about her, noticing how the ridges of her collar bones are as sharp as those on Causey Pike. I’ve seen how she folds her arms across her chest, as though ashamed of its fullness, and when she walks, her body is hunched as if to make herself appear shorter.
I know I should talk to her, but the closeness we once shared seems to be slipping away from us. I consider taking the fudge out again, then change my mind, deciding Scott might like it.
‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’
Graham leans his back against the shelves of cigarettes and nods across the small parking area towards the distant peaks. I hear the soft click-click of the window vent as it turns and notice the way the sun streams through the window, picking out the cracks in the wooden counter.
‘It is lovely, yes.’
‘Scott out today?’ He scratches the side of his cheek, his fingers rasping on the whiskers that grow there. His weekend stubble he calls it, even though the weekend is yet to begin.
‘He’s taking a party of four out to Castle Crag this afternoon. The nearer it gets to summer, the busier he’ll be.’
‘Well, it’s certainly the perfect day for walking.’
I wonder if Graham Hargreaves ever walks. I doubt it. Like many of the people who have lived in the Lakes all their lives, a walk to him is a Sunday afternoon stroll along the flat path beside the River Brathay. The people Scott takes out are tourists seduced by pictures in the cottage brochures of majestic peaks and sky-blue tarns, the clouds reflected in their mirrored surface. I don’t say any of this to Graham, just check my list.
‘Hold on a sec. I’ve forgotten the frozen sweetcorn.’
Leaving the basket, I walk to the tall freezer cabinet and as I do, the bell above the door tinkles, making me turn. A young woman backs into the shop, struggling to drag a pushchair over the threshold but, as the wheels get stuck on the step, Graham lifts the flap of the counter and comes to her rescue. Shouldering the door to keep it open, he grasps the front wheels of the buggy with his free hand and lifts it over. I hear the woman thank him. She’s not from round here – I can tell by her accent. Her back is to me but I can’t stop staring at her long dark hair. It’s like a magnet to me.
Dragging my eyes away, I reach out a hand to pull open the freezer door. I hear the woman’s footsteps in the aisle and that’s when it happens. In one heart-stopping moment, Ria’s face is reflected in the glass – just as I remember it. She’s standing behind me, her dark hair falling to her shoulders, her eyes wide in terror. The shock is like a fist to my stomach.
Instinctively, I turn, but the young woman has moved away and all I can see is Graham Hargreaves rooting around in a basket of discount DVDs. When I look back at the glass door, Ria’s face has gone, but the feeling I had when I saw her hasn’t. My hand is still raised to the door and I see it’s shaking. I stare at it as though it belongs to someone else. With a great effort, I try to still my racing heart, but instead of lessening, the feelings become stronger.
‘Are you all right, Leona?’
Graham is by my side, but it’s as if his voice is coming to me through a fog. I want to answer him, but I can’t. I feel light-headed and disembodied, as if at any moment I might float away. My fingers close around the handle of the freezer cabinet and I’m scared to let go.
‘Is something wrong?’
The sense of terror I feel is debilitating. I’m unable to move, the nerves and muscles of my body unable to respond to the messages my brain is sending to them. Graham Hargreaves has his arm around me. He’s saying something else, but I can’t hear his words.
The young woman is there too now, standing beside Graham, unsure what to do. Now she’s closer, I see she’s nothing like Ria. How could she be?
‘Do you know where she lives?’ she says. ‘Should we call someone?’
Like a dramatic scene on a stage, I’m watching it all unfold as if from a great height. I’m pressed against the freezer cabinet, the others hovering like extras, and their outlines are blurred as though viewed through dry ice. What’s wrong with me?
Graham is asking me something, his face too close to mine, his breath smelling of the salami I saw half-open on the counter when I came in. He reaches into his pocket and, through the tears that make my eyes swim, I see he’s holding out his mobile. He says the word Scott. He must be asking if he should call him.
I picture my husband on some windswept fell and I know how his forehead will crease with worry when Graham tells him he should come. He’ll turn to the party he’s leading and say he’ll have to go back – that his wife’s ill. And, when he gets here, I will have to explain all of this to him.
Every part of my body is screaming to run out of the shop, to get back to the safety of my cottage, but I make myself turn and look at Graham Hargreaves’ worried face. ‘Please. I’m fine now. You don’t need to ring him.’
‘You don’t look fine, Leona. Can I get you a glass of water?’
‘Yes, yes thanks. Just give me a moment. I expect I’m coming down with something, that’s all.’
The girl has come back, her baby in her arms, and I close my eyes for a moment to stop the images that keep forming. Opening them again, I force a smile and she looks relieved. How could I think she looked like Ria? She’s too tall, her face too round.
‘And you’re certain you don’t want me to call Scott for you?’ Graham has come back with the water. He hands it to me, but he looks uncertain. Probably nothing like this has ever happened in his shop before.
‘Yes, honestly, I’m fine,’ I say again. If I repeat it enough times, he might believe it. We all might.
‘Well, if you’re sure.’
Taking my arm, he guides me back to the counter. He takes my purchases out of the basket and places them into my shopping bag, ringing them up as he goes along. My hands are still shaking and, as I open my purse, I drop a couple of pound coins as I take them out. The sight of them rolling under the counter makes me want to cry again.
‘Don’t worry,’ Graham says quickly. ‘I’ll fish them out later. Look, I can lock up and give you a lift down the road if you like?’
‘Thanks, but it’s not necessary.’ I’m embarrassed enough as it is. I just want to forget today ever happened.
Picking up the plastic bag with my few things in, I turn and walk to the door, feeling the dark-haired woman’s eyes on me. When I get outside, I breathe in deeply. A cloud has passed over the sun and the pikes that were a vivid green earlier are now darkened by shadow. I try to bring back the feeling of calm I had when I walked here only fifteen minutes earlier, but it won’t come. Something is stopping it.
And I know that the something is Ria.
The house was in darkness when Beth let herself in. Reaching her hand behind the curtain that hung just inside the front door to stop the cold air from coming in, she switched on the light. With any luck, her mum wouldn’t realise how late it was.
‘Mum?’
On the settee, their cat, Wainwright, stretched, his claws catching in the tassels of the cushion he’d been asleep on. Beth bent to stroke his head.
‘Where is she, Wain?’
Going through to the kitchen, there were signs that her mum had been in there: a plate and knife in the sink and the bread bin standing open. When she placed her hand on the kettle, it was slightly warm. Flicking the switch to make herself some tea, Beth went to the back door and opened it.
The fell that rose steeply behind the house was just a dark shape in the gloom. The terrace of slate cottages had been built up against it, leaving no room for a garden, just a small paved area big enough for the shed that her mother called her workshop. Her dad had put it up the previous year after Beth had complained that her mother’s tools throughout the house gave her no space to do her homework. The silver, wires, cutters and soldering iron that had once taken up most of the table by the window were now spread out on the shed’s workbench.
Expecting to see a light on in the workroom window, Beth was surprised to find it in darkness. Where was her mum?
Part of her was pleased that she wasn’t home. For the last couple of days, as she’d turned the key in the lock, she’d found herself holding her breath. Wondering if anything would be said – if her mum had found out she’d been bunking school. It was, she knew, only a matter of time. She thought of the bag of clothes and walking boots pushed under the hedge at the bottom of the drive. On days when she couldn’t face the thought of the classroom, days when escaping onto the fells was her only way to avoid going mad, she’d change back into her uniform before coming into the house, shoving her boots and jeans into the bag. She’d have to go out and get them before anyone came across them. Soon, the day would come when she’d have to explain herself and, when she did, her mum would make a scene. The thought made her go cold. She hated arguments, had done for as long as she could remember, and if there was ever any danger of one developing, she’d take herself off to her room at the back of the house. Not that her mum and dad argued much. Unless they did it when she was well out of earshot.
Her dad wasn’t home either, but then she hadn’t expected him to be. Sometimes, when he was taking out a group of walkers, he’d stop with them for a drink in the pub afterwards to get some feedback and wouldn’t get back until late. She didn’t blame him. Who’d want to come back to this pokey little place? So what if it was full of history, that slate miners used to live there? The slate miners were welcome to have it back.
Pulling off her maroon blazer, she hung it on one of the pegs in the little lobby by the front door. There was an assortment of coats and jackets already in there, pushing out into the small porch area and, as she bent down to take off her shoes, two of them ended up on the floor. She cursed under her breath. If her mum and dad could afford to send her to a snotty school like Lady Edburton, why couldn’t they afford a place big enough to swing a cat?
As she straightened, she caught sight of the school badge on her blazer. Picking up the fallen coats, she hung them on top of it. Just the sight of the shield with its prancing lion and interlocking L and E made her feel sick.
After making herself some tea, Beth stretched out on the settee. Reaching behind her, she threw one of the many cushions onto the floor, then felt for her school bag. Unzipping it, she pulled out the A4 spiral-bound book that was in there, its pages full of her sketches. Drawing up her legs, she rested the book on them, noticing there was a hole in the knee of her opaque black tights. It must have happened when she was changing out of her jeans. It was her last pair and if any of the girls saw it, she knew what they’d say. Sometimes it was to her face, but other times it was saved for a Facebook or WhatsApp conversation. Her skirt wasn’t the right length, her bag hadn’t come from the right shop, her hair hung loose on her shoulders when everyone else had theirs tied back. Anything and everything. Didn’t they realise that their so-called fashion statements made them all look the same? Just like the Herdwick sheep that grazed the fells behind their house. Her mum didn’t seem to think there was anything wrong with looking like everyone else, but Beth couldn’t see the point.
Her mum’s views on conformity didn’t stretch as far as social media. She wasn’t keen on her going on it and, if she was honest, Beth didn’t like it either. She couldn’t help herself though – surely it was better to know what was being said about you. The WhatsApp group had been set up by Carina when she’d joined the school in Year 9, a year when Beth had been happy, when people had still liked her. It hadn’t taken long for things to change.
A while back, Beth had stopped leaving comments on the group and now she was pretty sure everyone had forgotten she was even on there. Or she hoped so, for she couldn’t bear the thought that they knew but said those things anyway. This way she could be like a ghost. There but not there.
The hole in her tights was making her anxious. Maybe she could mend it? Or stick it with some of her mum’s jewellery glue. The thought made her weary. Every day was spent worrying about what they’d think.
Suddenly, it was all too much. Shoving her fingers inside the hole, she pulled them sideways, ripping it wider. Who cared anyway?
‘Beth?’
Her mum’s voice was coming from the top of the stairs. She’d been home all along. Beth shoved the book back into the bag just as her mum came down the stairs, rubbing her eyes. Her blouse was creased and her blonde hair awry. In the half light, she looked barely older than some of the girls in Beth’s school.
‘Mum, what are you doing?’
Her mum pinched the bridge of her nose and frowned. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’
‘What, at half past six?’ As soon as she said it, she regretted it. She didn’t want to bring attention to the time. It didn’t look as though her mum had processed it, though.
‘I haven’t been sleeping too well recently,’ was all she said.
It was true she looked tired. Dark circles under her eyes. And she’d been acting weirdly recently – forgetting where she’d put things and not answering straight away if she was asked a question. Since yesterday, it had been as though her mind was somewhere else.
‘What’s happened to your tights?’
Beth shrugged. Surprised she’d even noticed. ‘I caught them on something.’
Even a week ago, her mum would have nagged her about looking after her clothes. Now she just drifted down the stairs and into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway as though wondering why she’d gone in there.
‘Mum, are you all right?’
‘Of course I am.’
Beth could see the effort it took to produce the smile her mum gave her. There were no questions about school and no mention of the fact that she was late home. Knowing she ought to be relieved, she was surprised to find she wasn’t. Something wasn’t right.
‘I’m going to my room. I’ve got some revision to do.’
Her mum ran her fingers through her hair. ‘Can’t you do it down here?’
‘No. I need the computer.’ Picking up her bag, Beth went up the stairs. As she climbed, her bag caught on one of the photographs on the wall. She straightened it and then sighed. It was like a rogue’s gallery up there. Some of the photographs were just of her, while others were of her and her mum or of the three of them together. The one she liked best was the picture of her standing on the slopes of Castle Crag, her hand shielding her eyes from the sun. They’d gone to the north-west of the Lakes for the day a few years ago, and the photograph had been taken while she’d been watching the falcons. She straightened the frame she’d knocked. Despite the smiling faces, the collection of photographs made her sad. Things had been different then. Easier, somehow. She could still remember that day. The way she and her mum had teased her dad about his sunburnt nose, giggling like silly schoolchildren when he stepped in a beck and got his walking boot full of water. It was a while since she’d seen her mum laugh like that. A while since they’d shared a joke of any kind.
When she got to her room, instead of switching on the overhead light, Beth turned on the small bedside lamp, then closed the door and the curtains. Her computer was on a desk under the window. She didn’t turn it on but, instead, felt in her pocket for her phone. The colourful icons shone brightly in the dim lighting and she stared at them for a moment. If she looked, she knew it would make her unhappy – yet she couldn’t help herself.
Pres. . .
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