The evening in the pub with Tom passed quickly. She found herself telling him about her job as a carer, her lifestyle living with Gran, and her previous trips to the Lake District, years ago. They swapped stories of the mountains they’d climbed. She told him of an epic day on Pillar when she’d rounded a shoulder of the mountain to be faced with wind so strong it almost blew her off. After battling on for a few more minutes she’d had to give up and retrace her steps, back to the sheltered side of the mountain. Tom for his part told her of a winter climb up Helvellyn via the notorious knife-edge ridge of Striding Edge. The weather had been perfect but very cold, and the ridge was icy in places. ‘One slip up there and you fall five hundred metres,’ he said. ‘We probably shouldn’t have attempted it, but hey. We survived.’
‘I love Striding Edge,’ she said. ‘Definitely the best route up Helvellyn.’
He stared at her, clearly impressed that she had accomplished that climb. She decided to keep quiet about the fact that some sections of it had scared her witless, and it was only because she’d been with her dad and brother that she had been able to complete the climb.
‘It certainly is,’ he agreed.
They talked until closing time about mountains, walks, expeditions, plans for the week, places they’d like to travel to, experiences they’d like to have. Laura discovered they appeared to have a lot in common – not least their love of wild places. Stuart’s idea of a wild place was a packed nightclub playing pounding dance music, she thought wryly, and realised the one thing she had not mentioned to Tom at all was her relationship with Stuart. Her ex-relationship, that was. Her ex-best friend, ex-boyfriend, ex-flat, ex-lifestyle. She missed it all still, but knew she could never have it back. She’d told Tom lots about her teens and early twenties, the pre-Stuart days, and about the last three months living with Stella, and nothing at all about that yawning void in her past that was the four years with Stuart. That was all too complicated to go into, bearing in mind she’d only really met Tom that morning.
For his part, he’d mentioned a woman called Sarah a few times, as someone he’d been to the Lake District with many times, someone he’d climbed and hiked with.
‘Your girlfriend?’ Laura asked.
‘Ex. She moved on,’ he replied, and his closed expression told her it was not a welcome topic. Fair enough – Laura didn’t want to talk about Stuart either.
Finally, when the pub called time and the lights went up, they left and walked back to the campsite in the warm night air. It was sweetly scented with honeysuckle overgrown from a cottage garden, which wound its way through the hedgerows that lined the lane. The sky was clear with a half-moon just rising above the hills, and Laura found herself wishing the evening would never end. It was good to have met someone she could talk to, a new friend. That was all Tom could be – she wasn’t looking for another relationship. It was too soon after Stuart, and she was too badly scarred. She needed a good long time alone.
When they reached her tent, he turned to her and raised a hand. ‘Night, then. See you around nine in the morning for that walk?’
‘Sure.’ She watched him walk away, then pulled out her sleeping mat and lay on it outside her tent for a while, staring up at the stars, trying and failing to empty her mind. Her thoughts swam amongst Stuart, Martine, Tom, and her gran’s ramblings about a missing tea caddy in the ruins of Brackendale Green. Eventually she decided enough was enough and it was time to get some sleep.
In her tent, she retrieved her head torch from her rucksack, switched it on and began the process of getting ready for bed. She’d barely begun when her phone beeped – a text had arrived. Who’d be texting her this late? She pulled it out and frowned. Stuart.
Hey, Lols. I hear you are on holiday. Hope you are having fun. Xxx
What on earth? It had been three months since they’d split up, and in that whole time they had only exchanged a couple of texts about practicalities such as picking up her gear, transferring the flat’s utility bills into Stuart’s name rather than hers, retrieving her share of the flat’s damages deposit. What should she do – text back? Ignore it?
She was still staring at her phone, pondering what to do, when another one arrived.
Was thinking about you a lot today. Miss you. Think I made a mistake.
A mistake? Her heart began pounding. Did he want her back? Did she want him back? Could she even take him back, after all that had happened? It was true that despite everything, she missed him. She missed the camaraderie of living in the flat, the closeness of snuggling up to someone every night, the feeling that her future was mapped out. But – what he and Martine had done – no. There was no way back from that.
The phone rang, making her jump. It was Stuart. She held it, staring at it as it rang, unable either to answer it or to decline the call. Let it go to voicemail. She could listen to the message, if he left one, later, and decide how to respond. How many times would it ring before it stopped? Would it ever stop? Half the Lake District had no mobile reception, with the mountains blocking all signals. Why couldn’t this campsite be the same? She’d been pleased to find she had reception here when she arrived and could call Gran, but now she’d rather not know that Stuart was trying to contact her.
At last the phone stopped ringing. She put it down, with sweaty palms, and waited for it to ring again as it surely would if he’d left a voicemail. Five minutes passed but there were no more calls. No message; just those two texts. No, she wouldn’t reply. Not now. Maybe in the morning. Let Stuart think she had no reception, or her phone was on silent. Let him think what he liked. She owed him nothing. Maybe she should block his number. She must be strong. She took a deep, steadying breath, and switched her phone off for the night. It was low on charge anyway. She’d need to plug it in at the campsite office for an hour or so in the morning.
Laura had a restless night. She was too hot, she’d had a bit too much to drink, and then Stuart’s texts and call kept her awake and fretting. What did he want? What did he mean by saying he thought he’d made a mistake? How should she respond? At last she fell asleep only to dream of Stuart shouting at her, his mouth huge, red and ugly, and then Tom, stepping between them, pulling her away, and then a dried-up lake-bed, broken walls and her grandmother stumbling towards her across the mud, muttering about something hidden, something lost, something wrong. She woke in the early hours sweating, her mouth parched, her heart racing, but a decision made: she would ignore Stuart’s texts and calls. He’d probably made them when he was drunk. He wouldn’t send any more. And she was certain she did not want him back, not now, or ever. That chapter of her life was most definitely over.
Thankfully she did manage to sleep again, and woke at seven feeling much better than she had felt at three. She switched on her phone and checked her voicemail – no messages. What a relief. She did not want to even hear Stuart’s voice, not here, on holiday.
She picked up a book to read for an hour. No need to get up just yet – there was plenty of time to have breakfast before meeting Tom for the planned climb up Bracken Fell. This early in the morning the air was a little cooler and it was pleasant to lie in her sleeping bag reading.
When the phone rang again her stomach lurched. No, please, not Stuart. She looked at the display and discovered with relief that it was Stella. The relief was quickly replaced by worry – why was Gran phoning so early in the morning? What had happened? Or was it Gran’s carer, phoning with bad news? She answered quickly, her palms sweating.
‘Gran? Are you all right?’
‘Laura, dear. Yes, I am all right. Is it too early? I had trouble sleeping.’
‘Oh dear. So did I.’ Laura fleetingly debated telling Gran that Stuart had called but immediately dismissed the idea. No point worrying her. ‘It’s just so hot, isn’t it? Is that what kept you awake?’
‘What dear? The heat? Oh no. It was my silly old head, going round and round, thinking about the old tea caddy and whether it would still be there after all these years, and whether . . . oh, I don’t know. Whether you’d be able to find it, after all this time.’
Laura felt a pang of worry. Stella was rambling again. Perhaps she should never have gone away and left her – not if she was beginning to show signs of dementia. ‘Gran, what are you talking about?’ she said gently.
‘Oh, my dear. You probably think I’m making no sense. There was a tin box – an old tea caddy – in our house in Brackendale Green. Pa wanted me to fetch it, but I couldn’t. He wanted it so much, but I couldn’t get to it.’
‘Why couldn’t he get it himself?’
‘He . . . he wasn’t able to come back. He was . . . well. He was somewhere else. He’d asked me to fetch it for him. But the water was . . . there was water everywhere.’
Laura frowned, trying to make sense of what her grandmother was saying. ‘Are you talking about after the village was flooded? You came back for something?’
‘Yes, that’s right. It was because of Jessie. That’s why I had to go back.’
‘Who’s Jessie?’
There was silence on the other end.
‘Gran? Who’s Jessie – you said you had to go back because of her?’
Stella sighed. ‘Dear, sweet little Jessie. My sister.’
‘I never knew you had a sister?’
‘No, dear. I have never spoken about her. It was all so long ago.’
‘Gran, what happened to her?’
‘She was only just three. It was in the last few months before we had to leave the village. Ma was dead, and I know Pa had been struggling to look after us both. Jessie was a lively little thing, you see, a bit of a handful, and for a man on his own looking after two children . . . well, I’m sure whatever happened he never meant it to.’
What was Gran trying to tell her? Laura wished she was with Stella now, holding her hand, coaxing the story out of her. It was so much harder by phone. ‘What happened?’ she asked again gently.
‘She . . . she died. I saw her for the last time in the morning, before school. I dressed her that day, in her favourite pink frock that was too small for her but she did like to wear it. And a cardigan that Ma had knitted for her when she was sick. Poor Ma, lying there on her deathbed, determined to finish off that cardigan so that her little daughter would have something new to wear. And she managed it. All but the buttons, which I sewed on for her. But anyway. Jessie was wearing the pink dress and the cardigan, and I had tied her hair with a ribbon bow on top. I can picture her now, so clearly, after all these years. Must be eighty years ago now, or more, and she’s fresh as a daisy in my mind. Oh, dear me.’
‘That was the last time you saw her?’ Laura prompted.
‘Yes. I dressed her, and we had breakfast, and then I went off to school. The schoolhouse was down the valley, at Beresford, below where they built the dam, and the children went there from both villages and from farms all around. It was a two-mile walk from Brackendale Green. Tough going in winter if it snowed, I can tell you.’ Stella took a deep breath before continuing. ‘When I got home that afternoon, Jessie was . . . she was gone. My poor little sister! Hardly more than a baby she was. Such a lovely child when she was behaving. You know, I can still hear her giggle clear as anything, as though she was right here in the room with me.’
Laura asked gently, ‘Gran, how did she die?’
‘Oh Laura, love. It must have been an accident. They said it was murder but he wouldn’t . . . he could never have . . . and they never found . . .’ Gran’s voice trailed away beneath shuddering sobs.
‘Gran, please, don’t upset yourself. I shouldn’t have asked. We can talk about it when I’m back home, if you want to.’ Laura was cursing herself, wishing she was there to wrap her arms around her grandmother and comfort her.
‘No, no. I must tell you now, while you’re there.’ Stella took a deep steadying breath. ‘You might be able to find it.’
‘Find what?’
‘The tin. I couldn’t reach it. But now, well maybe, if it’s still there . . . Of course, it might not be. I never knew why Pa didn’t just . . . but he asked me to fetch it, and I tried. Oh Laura, I tried so hard to get to it but I couldn’t. And then . . . it was all my fault, you see? All my fault, what happened after that.’
‘What’s in the tin?’
Another silence, and sounds of eye-wiping and nose-blowing. When Stella spoke again her voice was very quiet, barely above a whisper. ‘I don’t know, love. I just know it was important, and Pa wanted me to fetch it.’ She was quiet again for a moment. ‘I failed him. It was all my fault.’
At that moment Laura’s phone bleeped, warning her its battery was critically low.
‘Gran, my phone’s almost out of charge. It’ll cut me off any moment. But what do you think was your fault, Gran?’
‘All of it, all of it.’
‘So, this tin – of course I will look for it, but where do you think it is?’
‘In the –’
Stella was cut off. Laura stared at her phone. Its screen was black, dead, completely out of charge. She tried to make sense of all that Stella had said. What had happened to her little sister? What was this tea caddy she kept talking about, and what was in it? Why was it so important? Well, she would have to wait now until she could speak to Gran again.