32. I’m Very Sorry
Chapter 32
I’m Very Sorry
B reaking the news to Mrs Thompson wasn’t a task Amy relished, but she couldn’t shy away from it. As she followed the short track towards the farm her mind went back to the time it had happened to her – the knock at the front door and the outlines of the two police officers outside, seen dimly through the patterned glass. Strangers at the front door were bad news, and she’d known it. Harry had been asleep upstairs and she’d been waiting for her mam to come back from a day out hiking. The casserole she’d made for their tea had started to dry out. Something was wrong – her mam hadn’t answered her phone. Perhaps her car had broken down somewhere there was no mobile signal, or she’d popped round to a friend’s house unexpectedly and set her phone to silent. There were plenty of innocent scenarios for Amy to imagine as she paced to the window every now and then to see if she could spot the lights of her mam’s car. They never came.
Before she’d opened the door to the two officers, she’d known exactly what they’d come to say, just as Mrs Thompson would know from her very presence outside the door of the farm she hadn’t brought good news.
The snow creaked beneath her boots. Her torch lit up the narrow track in front of her so she could see where to put her feet, but everything else around her was in darkness as clouds began to billow up behind the hills and block out the moon. Although her fingers had started to thaw in Matt’s gloves her toes were ice, she could barely feel them, and the night air chilled her face. It was less than a quarter of a mile but she wished it could be longer, even in the bitter cold, to delay her arrival. The yard gate was frozen and needed a good hard shove, and the metal hook fastening it was icy. She fiddled to close it again, fingers clumsy with the cold and the thick gloves.
Once inside the yard she stood in front of the old farmhouse. There was the scent of woodsmoke in the air; Mrs Thompson must have lit the fire ready for Mr Thompson and Peter to come home and warm themselves after a day outside. From where she stood the powerful yard light shone out starkly. The path worn by several sets of footprints from the gate to the front door was clear. One of them would be old Mr Thompson’s as he’d set out that morning. She stamped her feet to get rid of the worst of the snow before she went up to the back door of the farmhouse – no-one ever used the front door. Even before she could knock someone was there and the door creaked open.
‘Heard you stamping. You’d better come in out of that cold,’ said Mrs Thompson in an attempt at cheerfulness, though even as she spoke, Amy could hear the sadness in her tone.
She knew. Did Amy still have to tell her?
Awkwardly, Amy stepped into the farmhouse kitchen. Diane sat at the big kitchen table, a mug of tea in front of her. It was incongruous to see Diane with a heavy, chipped mug in her hand rather than one of her favourite delicate china cups. She looked up as Amy shut the door behind her, and from the expression on her face, she knew too.
Neither of them expected good news.
Amy took a deep breath.
‘I’m very sorry …’ she began and then stopped. Now she knew what those two police officers must have gone through when they arrived at her front door. One of them had been very young, only twenty-four, twenty-five at most. No wonder they hadn’t known what to say to her.
‘Eh. Well.’ Mrs Thomson sat down at the table. ‘So, he’s gone.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Amy said again. The officers had said the same to her, the young one in particular, over and over again, as if it would somehow make a difference, somehow bring her mother back from the cold water of the river. ‘I’m so sorry. We were too late. There was nothing anyone could have done.’
It had upset her, then, that they couldn’t find anything else to say, or think of something to tell her which would have made a difference. All the police could do was to tell her how sorry they were. But sorry wouldn’t bring her mam back, and now she couldn’t think of anything else to say to Mrs Thompson. Everything seemed inadequate. ‘So very sorry,’ she repeated.
‘You’d better take your coat off,’ Mrs Thompson said, and Amy turned around to hang her coat on an ancient hook beside the back door and took the opportunity to gather herself together. Now wasn’t the time to dissolve into tears.
‘Was he … gone … when you found him?’ Mrs Thompson asked softly. Diane reached out to the older woma n and held her hand. Amy stood awkwardly in the doorway and the melting snow from her hat started to trickle down her face like tears in the warmth of the kitchen. She pulled the hat off and hung it on the peg with her coat.
‘Yes. Jack was there beside him; he wasn’t going anywhere. It looked like he’d sat down for a rest and fallen asleep.’ She crossed to the table and sat down opposite Mrs Thompson and Diane. ‘Your Peter’s up there now, and the mountain rescue, and they’ll bring him down off Elder Fell.’
The heavily pregnant Jess waddled through the kitchen and nudged against Mrs Thompson’s hand as if she knew the woman needed comfort right now. Almost absent-mindedly, Mrs Thompson stroked her soft head, and Jess whined gently.
‘In that spot above your cottage, was he? The viewpoint?’
Amy nodded as she thought her voice might break if she spoke.
‘He used to stop there often. See most of the farm from up there, he could. He liked to sit there of a summer’s evening. There’s this big, flat stone like a seat, you see. He’d sit and watch the world go by. It was his whole world, this dale, he never wanted nothing more. I knew, when Diane told me where she’d seen your torch, that’s where he’d be. The silly old fool, should’ve let our Peter check on the sheep. All the way up there in the snow at his age.’ Her words were harsh, but her tone of voice wasn’t.
‘He was very peaceful,’ Amy said.
‘Ay. Well, that’s summat, isn’t it?’ Mrs Thompson stood up and walked over to the kitchen window where she looked up at Elder Fell and the flickering lights of the mountain rescue team. The lights, Amy noticed, were almost exactly where she’d seen that figure yesterday evening. Now it all made sense – it must have been Mr Thompson in his favourite spot, looking out over his farm in the fading light, perhaps with the dogs at his feet.
‘He must have been up there yesterday as well,’ Amy said. ‘I think I saw him at nightfall.’
‘Yesterday evening? No, he was here with me, pottering round, checking the feed stores and sorting out the vet’s bill. Didn’t go further than the yard all afternoon.’
‘It must have been a hiker in that case.’
‘Must’ve been. We get them at all sorts of strange times round here. Reg always says … I mean, said …’ There was a long pause as Mrs Thompson busied herself re-arranging some cutlery on the draining board with her back to them, and they never did find out what Reg had always said. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
‘Would you like me to make you a cup of tea?’ Diane asked, but nobody wanted a cup of tea right then. Mrs Thompson moved to sit down in the rocking chair beside the stove.
‘Eh, deary me. Whatever am I going to do without him?’ She’d picked up a tea towel from the rail of the stove and she folded and unfolded it on her lap, as if she was looking for something precious within its folds.
‘It takes some getting used to,’ Diane said.
‘You lost your husband too, didn’t you?’ Mrs Thompson turned to her.
‘I did. It was some time ago now.’ Diane seemed embarrassed by the question.
‘You must miss him terribly,’ Mrs Thompson said distantly, as if she was having a conversation she didn’t quite understand with someone who couldn’t provide her with the answers she sought, and all the time her hands were busy folding and unfolding the worn, old tea towel .
‘It was very different after he was gone,’ Diane said, awkwardly, as if she didn’t want to answer. Amy could understand that. Diane wouldn’t want to turn a moment of someone else’s grief into a discussion about her own. It wouldn’t help anybody.
Mrs Thompson got up and dropped the tea towel to the floor as she did so. The headlights of one of the mountain rescue vehicles were visible on the track as they approached the farm.
‘Eh, well, here they come.’ Her hands shook as she held back the curtain so she could see further down the lane. ‘I wonder if our Peter –’
She didn’t have time to finish, as Peter himself opened the door and stamped the snow off his boots like Amy had done. His face was grey, but whether with cold or grief or both Amy wasn’t sure.
‘Mam,’ he began, and looked round at them as if he didn’t know where to start.
‘Amy, it’s time we went,’ said Diane, firmly. ‘Now Peter’s here, we won’t be needed.’
‘Yes, you’re right.’ Amy started to put her boots back on. Peter’s expression had told her everything she needed to know – this wasn’t a time nor a place for well-meaning acquaintances. ‘You know where we are if you need us.’
Diane hadn’t taken her own boots off when she arrived, so she picked up their coats, handing Amy hers once she’d put her own on. Amy had only got one arm into her sleeve before Diane ushered her out of the door and shut it behind them. Amy paused on the doorstep to finish putting her coat on, but no sooner had the door closed than they heard a low murmuring followed by a cry of grief. Perhaps, after all, she would put her coat on as she walked; she didn’t want to eavesdrop.
The second of the mountain rescue Land Rovers headed down the valley from where they’d parked up beside the sheepfold and was about to pass them at one of the narrow points of the lane. They pressed themselves against the cold stone wall and raised a hand in greeting as the vehicle passed with a clatter and a snarl of the engine.
‘I’m glad we haven’t got far to walk,’ Amy said.
‘Indeed. We’ll be back at the cottage soon,’ Diane agreed. ‘Best foot forward.’
It sounded like something her mother might’ve said.