Gateway to the Lakes
Like a Regency novel, the etiquette of walking required that she spend time in conversation with each of the guests, and now that it was nearly over, it seemed a good time to mark the card of the man who’d spoilt her joke.
‘Ah, Ennerdale Bridge!’ she said, reading the village sign. ‘Gateway to the Lakes!’ and he smiled lightly, still looking ahead. ‘I think we were on the same train.’
‘You were working hard. I was going to tell you to look at the view, but I didn’t think you’d thank me.’
She typed in the air. ‘Busy city girl, lot of pressure, deadlines to meet.’
‘What d’you do, if you don’t mind me …?’
‘I’m a copy-editor. Fiction mainly, checking over books before publication.’
‘Like marking homework.’
‘Sort of. You’re a teacher?’
‘Yes.’
‘Let me guess. Geography.’
‘Is it the beard or just a general …?’
‘The knitwear, the pebble fetish.’
‘Not a fetish. It’s called geology.’
‘I don’t know, you do pick up a lot of stones. We passed that pile of rocks, you picked one up, gave it a little rub, sniffed it—’
‘Clearly, I didn’t sniff it.’
‘—put it carefully on top.’
‘That’s a cairn, an ancient marker. You’re meant to do that, so it lasts.’
‘Oh. Now I feel bad. I was never very good at geography. Sorry.’
‘We are not a vengeful people.’ They reached the old bridge and stood for a moment looking down into the whorls of black water. ‘This is the River Ehen,’ he said, as if introducing them at a party.
‘Geography field trips, is that still a thing? Are they still wild?’
‘Not on my watch. And not for the teachers.’
‘I should hope not. My God, we went on one to the Isle of Wight and I swear, it was like the last days of Rome. Is that what drew you to the subject?’
‘The packed lunches? The hostels?’
‘Kids throwing up on the coach?’
‘Not just that. What drew me to …?’ He thought for a moment, as if considering the question for the first time. ‘I liked knowing why things are where they are. Used to walk with my mum and dad, liked being outdoors, interested in the environment, the politics of it. Was crap at everything else. What did you study at uni?’ he said.
‘Oh, I didn’t go to university.’
‘I thought that was where you met Cleo?’
‘People meet in other places.’ She was punishing him a little. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just when people find out I work with books but don’t have a degree, they’re all Really? As if it’s a scam, like I’m a self-taught heart surgeon or something.’
He seemed to think for a moment. ‘I don’t think I did that.’
‘No. You’re right. You didn’t,’ she said, and this was true. They walked on.
‘So how do you know Cleo?’
‘We met in the office where I was working. Commercial advertising.’
‘You worked in advertising?’
‘Doesn’t that sound glam? Used to. Small-time stuff, just selling space, admin, answering the phone, writing the odd bit of copy. Cleo came in as a temp in the holidays, slumming it while she was studying, and we talked about books, so I’ve known her, what?, eighteen years. She was sort of my mentor, trying to get me back into education. Except I never took her advice. Long before she was this superstar head-teacher.’
‘Deputy.’
‘Deputy head-teacher. Did you meet at school?’
‘Yeah, me and my wife used to—’
‘Oh. Oh, you’re married?’
‘Separated. Cleo likes to keep an eye on me.’
‘I know that feeling,’ said Marnie. People who said they were separated, not divorced, were like people who insisted that a tomato was a fruit, not a vegetable: technically correct, but on shaky ground. No one ate tomato ice-cream. ‘I’m divorced,’ she said emphatically, professional to amateur. ‘Also Anthony’s godmother.’
‘You’re Anthony’s godmother. We’ve met you!’
‘Your wife’s name was …’
‘Natasha, Nat.’
‘Natasha! Pretty, well-dressed. You’re a nice couple. Or you were.’
‘Oh, well, thank you,’ he said. ‘I thought so.’
This was definitely a bump in the road, but if she kept going. ‘Sorry. Sorry, I’m … I’ve forgotten your name.’
‘Michael, Michael Bradshaw.’
‘So we met at the christening.’
‘We must have.’
‘Clearly I made quite the impression.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I have one of those memory-foam mattresses at home and every night absolutely no idea who I am. You might remember my ex-husband, though, he was there. Do you remember talking to a little shit?’
‘Nope.’
‘Anyone patronise you, start an argument, talk over you?’
‘Everyone seemed very nice.’
‘You missed him, then. Lucky you.’
‘Was it a very happy marriage?’
‘Flah,’ she mumbled, then took him by his arm. ‘Let me look at you again.’ They stopped in the road, and she squinted at his face while he glanced around awkwardly. It was a good, strong face, though a little scuffed, nothing fine or delicate. The creases around his eyes might have been laughter lines, though surely no one laughed that much. Yet when he smiled, as he did now, there was something reassuring about it, dependable, a sense of being in good hands. ‘I didn’t have the beard then,’ he said, turning in profile. ‘Or this,’ with his finger he traced a pale line, a scar running parallel to his jaw, ‘though I’m sure there are other reasons not to remember me. Anyway,’ he said, turning away as if stuffing something back into its box.
She recalled the summer afternoon, a secular christening, a kind of ceremonial barbecue: well-dressed families, kids running around, prosperity, community. A gazebo, a bouncy castle as imposing as the real thing. Natasha she remembered as likeable and only slightly competitive, but she did not remember the husband. In the what-have-I-done days of her own marriage, the main emotions she recalled from that afternoon were love for her friend and an equally profound envy. A common mistake in manuscripts was confusion over the words ‘envy’ and ‘jealousy’, the first meaning to want what someone else has, the second including the fear that someone might take what’s yours. She was not jealous. Neil did not get on with Cleo, did not like meeting strangers, being with other people or being left alone, and had strident opinions about barbecuing. She remembered venturing on to the bouncy castle with Cleo, the slow shake of his head, her shoes dangling from his index finger.
They were walking again. ‘So, in theory, if anything happens to Cleo and Sam, God forbid, then I get to keep Anthony.’
‘Um, well, I suppose so. I imagine there’d be some discussion with the executors of the will. And there’d be the godfather.’
‘I don’t know him. Some friend of Sam. Would I have to fight him?’
‘I don’t think godparents physically fight over orphans, no.’
‘Well, good because I’d cave straight away. Do you think I could have him?’
‘In a fight? I don’t know him but, yes, if you were determined enough, I’m sure you could beat up Anthony’s godfather.’
‘Ah, that’s nice. Thank you!’
The man seemed serious again. ‘Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that.’
‘I bet he’s a much better godparent than I am, too. I always thought I’d be boxes of oil pastels and tickets to the RSC but I’m ten quid in an envelope every second year. In fact, I’m not even sure, hand on heart, that I could renounce Satan.’
‘What about all his works?’
‘I’d renounce some of his works,’ she said. ‘The early stuff.’ He laughed so nicely that she almost forgave him for spoiling her hill-joke. ‘By the way, is it “Michael” or “Mike”?’
‘Michael. Strangely, hardly anyone calls me Mike.’
‘No, I get that. I think it’s that k – it’s like x, it’s quite racy. Mike’s a DJ but Michael’s a saint.’
‘Well, I’m no saint.’
‘That’s what they’re saying in the staffroom,’ she said, and thought, That’s enough for now. Leave them wanting more. Was Conrad tantalised by her absence? She fell back, turned to see him with Cleo, their heads close – was he talking about her? She’s so compelling, the way she clears her throat. He caught her eye – and was that a wink, or was he squinting into the low sun? No definitely a wink, and she turned and walked on, attempting to add a certain Monroe-quality to the pendulum swing of her rucksack. She took in nature in a generalised way and soon enough they were on a single-file path, through an ancient wood, damp and mulchy with a vegetal smell, bad in a fridge but fine here, circle of life and all that. Then, through the trees, a lake.
‘We’re there, everyone!’
An amber sunset illuminated the Trout Inn and they picked up their pace. She wrenched off her backpack before they were through the door. The saloon bar smelt of beer and coal, and room keys were handed out by a harassed landlord, his face a scribble pad of broken veins, spectacles hanging from a chain around his neck, like the weight of the world. An ancient by-law requires all country pubs to have themed rooms and here it was freshwater fish. Marnie was Gudgeon. ‘What are you, Cleo?’
‘Eh, Tench?’
‘Conrad?’
‘Stickleback.’
‘Wish I was in Stickleback,’ said Marnie.
‘Play your cards right,’ murmured Cleo, and Marnie blushed and thought, Oh, it’son, it’sdefinitelyon.
‘How about you, Michael?’
He was filling in the registration form. ‘What?’ He looked at the fob. ‘Oh. I’m Chub.’ They laughed and he smiled tightly. The Wi-Fi code was ‘wainwright2017’, all lower case.
‘There’s another room here,’ said the landlord.
‘Yes, that’s my friend Tessa. She couldn’t make it. We did cancel.’
The landlord sighed, preparing for the fight, and Marnie grabbed her bag and hurried up the narrow stairs to her room to use the toilet and charge all her devices.