The Path to the Lake

by Susan Sallis

  He stood by the door. ‘We’ll have to think of some way to repay you.’

  I was aghast. ‘Don’t talk like that – please. Hildie – your mother – she has literally saved me . . . so many times.’

  He said with a smile in his voice, ‘She is very insistent.’ And then, ‘You’ve been here, like this, on your own, for a year?’

  ‘Yes.’ I didn’t want his pity. ‘Are you coming in? The heating is leaking out.’

  ‘No. I must get back for the evening feed. Thank you again, Viv.’

  He was gone.

  Twelve

  THE NEXT SIX weeks passed in a blur. At the beginning of February, Hilda Hardy said of them: ‘They wasn’t so much a nightmare as a blizzard. I din’t know whether I were on my base or my apex. As for Christmas . . . well, it came and it went again.’ She smiled at Viv Venables to show there was no tragedy there.

  Viv laughed. She did not know whether she had actually enjoyed Christmas or not, but she hadn’t run, so she would at least remember it. For almost a year she had run so successfully she scarcely remembered anything; certainly last year’s Christmas had been just a black hole.

  This year she had loaded the car on Christmas Eve with as much traditional food as possible: a cooked turkey with all the trimmings, prepared vegetables, a pudding and some tinned custard. She had driven down to the Hardys during the evening and watched Hildie feed and change the twins while she herself laid the table for tomorrow’s Christmas dinner. Hardy had come in with a box of crackers and a miniature tree. Tom had been at the supermarket ‘getting in the drink’ as he put it.

  No, she had no idea whether she had enjoyed it, but at least she had been part of it. Last year she had not known it was Christmas; this year had been different.

  Hildie, struggling through her blizzard, hoped that the worst part of this tragedy was over. Della’s funeral had been awful. Just awful. The nurses who had looked after her were there; a woman in a navy-blue suit who on closer inspection turned out to be Della’s doctor. She it was who had discovered that Della was carrying twins and would need an urgent Caesarean operation. At the back of the church, behind a pillar, had been another woman in the same kind of suit, and when they were going home in the van Hardy had replied briefly to Hildie’s query about her. ‘Elisabeth Mason,’ he had said. Hildie had felt distinctly queasy. Her imagination had seen a vulture waiting in the wings ready to snatch Tom the moment the other predators left. But Hardy had taken his hand from the steering wheel for a moment to pat her knee and say gently, ‘Nice of her to be there for Tom.’ And she had swallowed, then nodded.

  At least the hovering Elisabeth had kept behind her pillar. Not like Della’s mother, who had wailed throughout the ceremony, and then had rounded on Tom on the way to the cemetery and told him he had ‘taken’ Della and then killed her. It had been an ugly scene. Tom had received it in silence, as if it were his due. Hildie had held his arm and felt the inner tremor through her gloved fingers.

  It was the funeral director who finally quietened the screeching as they drove through the gates of the cemetery. ‘Now then. Now then, Mrs Leach. Think of how it will look if it gets in the evening paper.’ And Della’s mother had suddenly been silent, hard as iron. As the car drew up by the open grave, she had said acidly, ‘I’m going to live with Della’s brother in Perth. That’s Australia. He left home when he was eighteen and hasn’t been much help since. About time he was.’ She looked at Tom with such malevolence Hildie had clutched his arm tighter still. ‘So, if you want to live in Cheltenham, you are welcome. I certainly won’t be running across you or those babies. Ever again.’ That had been something to be thankful for. And Hildie was; very, very thankful.

  So the funeral had been over and Christmas upon them, and through it all the twins had cried, been fed and winded and changed, and even then had probably cried again. Hildie’s blizzard always included sound. Loud sound. And muddles. She had seen Viv Venables’s muddles as a sign of grief, and had felt things were looking up after Hardy had tidied the hedges and conifers and Viv had started eating proper meals – even if they were nearly always boiled eggs and bread and butter. But Viv’s muddles had never been as bad as the ones in the riverside cottage. If you counted the twins – Joy and Michael – there were five people living in a house originally used to three. And for the past ten years the three had usually been two.

  Hardy, who was neat with his tools, lost his favourite screwdriver for two days. Hildie found it at the bottom of the clothes basket. At the back of the counter in the kitchen was an array of bottles taking up much of the work space. The sterilizer was where the bread bin usually went, and she could never remember where it was now. Packets of disposable nappies were everywhere: behind the sofa, in the nursery, even in the van.

  Meanwhile, life racketed on. They couldn’t have managed without Viv; Hildie said this often in front of Tom, whose attitude towards the tall skinny school-marm was still cautious.

  From two days before the funeral, when Viv came round for the first time, it became routine for her to take the twins for an afternoon walk. Michael and Joy. Joy and Michael. She made such a point of using their names, and she could always tell them apart. Before she tucked them carefully into their buggy she would lift each one high so that they could look down into her face and see her laughter. When she inveigled the wheels over the doorstep and back into the little hall, she did the same. She would settle them on the sofa cushions while she unbuttoned them, and sing silly jingles at them. ‘Michael and Joy, Michael and Joy, one is a girl and one is a boy.’ They knew it was supposed to be funny, and laughed to each other, raising rigid arms and clenched fists as if cheering her on.

  Hildie was supposed to put her feet up while they were out, but usually she was preparing the evening meal or ‘finding places for things’. Viv was there, never late, never over-staying her usefulness. She was there when Hildie broke down just once, and told her that Tom was like a zombie, a wonderfully efficient carer, but hardly a daddy.

  What had really upset Hildie was that when she told Tom to relax a bit and just love the babies, he had said, ‘They are here because of me. They will never know their mother, because of me. I am working on the bonding, Ma. But my priority at present is to keep them alive and well.’ His smile had been wintry. ‘Anyway, they will learn the truth soon enough, and it will be very hard for them not to blame me for their mother’s death. Probably best to keep a little distance.’ The words had come from his mouth like bullets from a gun, and Hilda had flinched at each one.

  Perhaps Viv guessed at the depth of Tom’s feelings, because she had wrapped Hildie in her long arms and said simply, ‘Poor Tom. It must be so hard.’

  By February Hildie’s blizzard was abating gradually, and Tom had taken on locum work at the local health centre, and had made his attic room into an office, and was well into a stratagem for training the twins to sleep through the night. His attitude remained that of a physician, at home as well as at the health centre. During her spare minutes, Hildie worried about how distant he was, and wondered whether she and his dad had kept him at arm’s length as a child. Had Della overwhelmed him with unwanted love when they were married? And the extra-marital relationship – what had happened to that? Hildie frowned, remembering the name. Elisabeth Mason. She had been at the funeral, but as far as the Hardys knew there had been no further contact, so that must have died a death, too. Perhaps Tom could not manage a proper relationship with a woman? And then a thought occurred to her. Might he be able to relate to a woman who also carried a huge load of guilt within her? He was thrown into contact with Viv, whether he liked her or not. But he trusted her with the twins. And he had seen some of her husband’s paintings up at the bungalow and remarked on their ‘clarity’.

  ‘What does that mean, son?’ Hardy had glanced at Hildie. Meaningfully, she thought.

  ‘Not sure. Their wide-openness.’ Tom smiled slightly and shook his head. ‘Seems out of place when you have anything to do with t
hat buttoned-up woman.’

  Hildie was not sure what Tom meant. Was he sorry for Viv? He had started off by being sorry for Della, and that had been a disaster. But Viv was different.

  There was a big age difference. That was true. Maybe ten years. But perhaps that was good, too. Might Viv care for Tom as she cared for his babies? Tenderly and thoughtfully.

  There was the business of that dratted door knob, of course. But there had been nothing of that for a long time now. Viv was busy every minute of every day, what with getting that bungalow up to scratch, and taking the twins for long walks, and visiting Juniper up at the home. Viv Venables might . . . could be . . . the one.

  And then what Hildie called the ‘blessed bug’ hit the little town, and whole families took to their beds for two or three days, and struggled with an aftermath of weakness and exhaustion. Hildie was the first to go down with it in the cottage, closely followed by Hardy. Tom was doing outlying house calls, and was hardly ever there, and Viv arrived at seven thirty each morning and looked after everyone until he returned at night.

  February behaved just as the old rhyme prophesied. ‘Fill dyke by name, fill dyke by nature,’ Hildie commented, blowing her nose and dabbing her eyes.

  Hardy nodded. ‘The rhines are overflowing on the Levels. No wonder everyone’s picking up this germ. Good job Mrs Venables is all right.’

  Viv stayed all right until the last day of the month, and then was hit by it very suddenly during an afternoon walk, in-between storms. When Tom collected the babies he immediately opened his case and took her temperature.

  ‘This later strain lasts just twenty-four hours,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a spate of them this morning, too. You should be fighting fit in a couple of days.’

  She mumbled something, and he said tersely, ‘Possibly you could cope with them, but possibly not.’ He looked at the thermometer. ‘Definitely not. Listen. I’ll get hold of a professional. Send her up to you tomorrow morning. Stay in bed till she comes – I’ll give her your spare key.’

  He did not ask if this would be all right. Michael started to cry. Joy did the soprano part. Viv was thankful when they all left, and she could shut the door and collapse on the sofa. At some point during the evening she poured lemonade and chipped some ice out of the freezer. She drank deeply, swilling down two paracetamol. She was so hot and swimmy, yet strangely cold inside. She made up the fire and fetched pillows and a duvet from her room. Just a nap, no need to undress.

  She heard the key in the door, the tentative: ‘Hello?’ The door closing again. The voice coming nearer, saying calmly, ‘It’s the nurse.’ A pause while whoever it was looked into the bedroom. ‘Ah. I take it you’re up . . .’ and then the living room door opened.

  Viv remembered everything. The spare key . . . the professional carer . . . She felt light-headed but perfectly normal. She said, ‘I’m all right now. I’ve had a wonderful night. Tell Tom I’ll be down for the twins after lunch . . . or is it after lunch now? I’m not sure. The clock stopped in the night, perhaps.’

  The voice, as light as her own, not exactly lilting but certainly not a monotone, said, ‘No, I don’t think it has stopped. It’s almost midday, and, believe it or not, it’s not raining!’

  Viv heaved herself up and looked languidly over the back of the sofa.

  ‘I stayed here all night. Much better. I wanted to get really hot. And it’s done the trick.’

  A young woman stood just inside the door; she smiled. She was small and attractive and looked totally competent.

  ‘Hello. I’ll go straight into the kitchen, shall I? Tea and thin bread and butter?’

  It was exactly right. ‘I can do it,’ Viv protested, then immediately sank back into the pillows and duvet.

  The woman said, ‘My name is Elisabeth Mason, and I was a colleague of Doctor Hardy’s in Cheltenham. We’ll soon have you feeling on top of things again.’

  She disappeared back down the hall to the kitchen. Viv stayed where she was, gazing at the ceiling. Hildie had mentioned Elisabeth Mason. She had been at Della’s funeral. She was the Other Woman.

  Thirteen

  HILDIE HAD TO admit that Elisabeth Mason was next door to being an angel. A late snow at the beginning of March made the Tump almost inaccessible. The staff from Tall Trees walked and slid up and down the hill to and from their work; the residents did not go out, and no one visited them. Elisabeth made an effort to drive her Ka up to Viv’s bungalow, and ended up sideways across the road. She managed to reverse very slowly to the first of the hairpin bends and park on the pavement. She then struggled into her backpack, which was full of soups, bread, milk and barley water, and climbed to the top, hanging on to the retaining wall of the garden.

  She let herself into the bungalow and found Viv in the kitchen making a cake.

  ‘I made a sort of Victoria sponge for Hildie not long ago, and I’m trying the recipe again.’ Viv put the tins in the oven and swilled her hands. ‘It takes about ten or fifteen minutes. We can have some . . . if you can stay that long.’

  She sounded diffident. She had no idea that the road was almost impassable, but she guessed Elisabeth would have her hands full with both Hardys ill and the twins invariably needing things at the same time.

  Elisabeth pressed a hand to her own side. ‘That would be great,’ she panted. ‘But why are you up and doing? You should be keeping warm. Let’s get you back on that sofa.’

  She chivvied Viv back into the living room and plumped pillows efficiently.

  ‘We used to have a cleaner . . . after my mother died – when I was still at school.’ Viv felt light-headed. She knew it was because she was weak, but it was rather marvellous, too, and she smiled blindingly at this young woman, who had Hildie curls and a round, schoolgirl face. ‘She wasn’t friendly, really. I used to make things out of cardboard boxes . . . model theatres and things. And, like my mother had, she would throw them away because she thought they were rubbish. But in my head I always thought she was my nanny. I wanted a nanny.’

  Elisabeth did not look surprised. ‘You think I would make a good nanny? I do need to be one for a few days, because of the twins.’ She tucked the duvet around Viv’s stick-like legs, looked up and met the smile. She blinked.

  Viv said, ‘Do look through the window. The snow makes everything look different. When you came yesterday you must have noticed the fig tree. It was stark naked. It’s not any more.’

  Elisabeth went to the window obediently. It was indeed very beautiful.

  ‘I can see now how the shrubs are sculpted into a perfect whole.’ She looked over her shoulder. ‘Did you do that?’

  ‘Yes. I started on the garden last autumn. Just after David pushed me into the lake and then chased me over the hill.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Elisabeth came back to the sofa, eyes wide. ‘Sounds terrifying. Who is David?’

  ‘My husband. I killed him. He was angry. Just before it happened he said he hated me. But he’s not angry now.’ Viv put her head back on the pillow, she was suddenly exhausted, and wondered whether she had said too much.

  Elisabeth stared for a moment, then went to the log basket and made up the fire. Sparks flew up the chimney. She replaced the guard carefully.

  ‘There. That makes it the perfect nursery, wouldn’t you say?’ She gave Viv a nanny smile, then glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll get out the sponges, shall I? Where do you keep your jam?’

  ‘There isn’t any. I put marmalade in before. That’s on the bottom shelf. Pantry.’ Viv closed her eyes.

  Elisabeth stood for a moment, her back against the spark guard. She looked down into Viv’s closed face and registered the blue-veined eyelids, the coif of hair. Tom had said this woman was about forty, but she looked nearer to fifty. And she had been coping with Tom’s babies and running a sky-high temperature; plus, she was very near the edge. Elisabeth went and found the marmalade; turned the sponges on to greaseproof paper because there were no wire trays in sight, and spread them lightly.

 
When she went back with cake and coffee, Viv was properly asleep. Elisabeth replenished the log box from an enormous stockpile in the utility room. Put the coffee in a thermos. Switched on several electric heaters, and wrinkled her nose at the smell of the dust burning off them. She opened a can of soup and poured it into a saucepan, then laid a tray for lunch. From the living-room sofa came the sound of coughing.

  ‘It’s all right . . .’ Viv held up a hand as Elisabeth entered. ‘I tried the sponge and a crumb stuck in my throat.’ She smiled again, but not blindingly by any means. Elisabeth thought she was frightened. ‘Sorry. It’s not really sweet enough, and the marmalade doesn’t help like raspberry jam would.’

  Elisabeth poured coffee from the thermos. ‘Sip this. Have you had your pills today? OK. Two paracetamols then. I’ve done a jug of barley water. Try to get it all down before this evening. Tom will look in. He’s got chains on his tyres.’

  ‘Is it that bad outside?’

  ‘Pretty much. I’ve left the car lower down.’

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry. You’ve struggled up with all that stuff . . .’ Viv surveyed the loaded tray . . . the barley water and glass . . . the thermos and the cake. ‘I really am thoughtless. Have another slice of cake. It will help you get down to your car.’ She looked at Elisabeth. ‘Please,’ she added.

  Elisabeth found herself eating the cake, and preferring it less sweet and slightly bitter when it came to the filling. She said as much, and added conversationally that she had bitten the inside of her cheek yesterday, and the cake was very easy to eat. Viv smiled vaguely. Elisabeth told her there was soup in the kitchen and plenty of bread for toast. Viv just nodded; her eyes were almost closed. Elisabeth stood up. ‘I’d better go. Mrs Hardy is much better, but not as well as she thinks she is! She will probably be up here in a couple of days. She’s really worried about you.’ She hesitated then went on, ‘I know about the car crash.’

  ‘Yes. Of course you do. I told you just now.’