‘Guess what,’ Angie crowed. ‘I’ve just broken a taboo. It was intensely satisfying.’
‘Oh?’
‘Facial hair on women, to be exact. Have you any idea how embarrassing people find that? It’s hilarious, especially in these days of so-called gender fluidity. I noticed this morning that I was getting a bit stubbly, and I said to one of the guests, as she was going out, “Wouldn’t it be great if society would allow women to grow beards?” Honestly – she didn’t know where to look.’ She laughed gleefully. ‘And your father was fantastic. He came up to me and stroked my chin, and said, “I think I might quite fancy that.” Made it all worse for the wretched woman, of course. She’s the type to spend half her money at a beauty clinic.’
‘She won’t be coming back to Beck View in a hurry, then,’ said Simmy.
‘I don’t care. It was worth it to see her face. I’m going to make a habit of it from now on.’
‘Don’t you dare,’ said Simmy.
An hour passed in baby-worship, coffee, idle chat. ‘Are you staying for lunch?’ Simmy asked, at midday.
‘I am – didn’t I say? Or we could go to the pub. Your father says he’ll come up on the bus this afternoon. We can go and meet him. He was thinking we’d have to fetch him from Pooley Bridge, because that’s been the end of the line for the bus since they started those diversions, but it’s running normally again now. I left him compiling a long list of stuff to get from the cash and carry. We’ll go together on the way home.’
‘He won’t be staying long, then. Why didn’t he come with you this morning?’
‘He wasn’t ready. He’d spent ages going over maps with one of the guests and was all behind. And there were beds to change for this evening.’
‘Poor Dad,’ said Simmy regretfully. The demands of the popular bed and breakfast establishment were more and more burdensome, getting in the way of family matters now that Simmy lived so much further away. ‘The bus takes ages.’
‘He likes it. There’s always somebody to chat to. If he really minded, he’d get another car. We don’t have to manage with just one if we don’t want to.’
‘Except you haven’t got space for two. One of them would have to live out in the road.’
‘So what?’
Simmy shrugged. ‘So nothing, I suppose. But I don’t think Dad would like it.’
‘Lucky he likes the bus, then.’
They were going round in circles, but Simmy was made aware of a shift in the triangular dynamic of her family. She had always favoured her father, joking with him, reading his thoughts, sharing his preoccupations. But since the baby, her mother had grown much closer, with a new softness that surprised them all, including Angie herself. It was, of course, a cliché that the arrival of a baby brought the generations together. The surprise was that the maverick Angie Straw should conform to anything so objectionable as a cliché.
They did not go to the pub but had a simple lunch, while Humphrey and his young assistant measured and marked, and started placing battens for the new wall. ‘I love all these smells,’ said Angie. ‘Paint and new wood. It takes me back to when your father and I had to have the floors replaced in our first flat.’
‘It’s nice having the builders here, now Christopher’s back at work. I might get a bit panicky all day on my own, otherwise.’
‘You’ll have to get over that,’ said Angie briskly. ‘The builders won’t be here for ever.’
‘I know they won’t. And they’re not here all day every day as it is. I just wish there were a few more neighbours, I suppose. Proper ones, not second-homers or holiday people.’
‘People are people,’ said Angie vaguely. ‘If you were in a pickle, you could just go to the door and shout, and a dozen hikers would run to your rescue.’
‘True,’ said Simmy, wondering what that would actually be like.
The phone rang shortly before two. ‘It’ll be your father with a change of plan,’ said Angie. ‘He always uses the landline.’ This was a slightly sore point between the two households. When the Hartsop house had requested the installation of Wi-Fi and Sky, an inevitable part of the package had been a fixed telephone line. Christopher had queried it, saying they could function quite well with mobiles, and there had ensued a lengthy harangue about signal reliability and system flexibility, which overrode any objections. ‘It can’t hurt, I suppose,’ said Simmy. Like her mother, she actually preferred using the time-honoured instrument, which was always sitting there on its stand, easy to find and easy to use.
But it wasn’t Russell calling. It was a strange voice, asking for Christopher Henderson. ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid,’ said Simmy.
‘Ah. Well, tell him I called, will you? My name’s Fabian Crick – got that? He’ll remember me. Tell him I’ve come to remind him of his promise to me.’
Simmy shivered slightly. ‘Promise?’ she echoed.
‘Right. It was a while ago now, but he won’t have forgotten. Your husband, or whatever he is, owes me big time. He made an undertaking, ten years ago now, and I’ve come to make good on it. You tell him that.’
Simmy said nothing, but before she could end the call, there was a final remark. ‘Oh yes – and tell him I’m living in Ullswater now. Just up the road, in fact.’
‘Who was that?’ asked Angie.
‘Um … somebody who knew Christopher some time ago. He didn’t sound very friendly.’ She frowned worriedly. ‘And he says he lives just up the road.’
‘I dare say Christopher knows quite a few shady characters, one way or another,’ said Angie, as if that was perfectly fine with her. ‘I’m sure he can handle them. Nothing for you to worry about.’
‘I hope not,’ said
