The drive to Coniston was leisurely. The exact spot where Wordsworth had penned his celebration of daffodils would stay forever unknown, but people guessed. Most said Ullswater; after all, his lines had been penned years after his walk with Dorothy there by the lake. Some said Coniston.
The Touran stopped at a deserted spot, close to the lake. The water was still and flat, like a pure sheet of expensive crystal. A light breeze moved small branches gently up and down. No-one ever came here, apart from the odd ranger to make sure there were no campfires.
It was getting worse, like Byron said. The Lakes was ruined by people: a scourge of sick-minded, vain, hypocritical and superficial hordes, intent on banality and infirmity. People were messy and noisy, and they interrupted the silence on the fells. The great swarms, which descended every summer, abused the beauty and ruined the sanctity of the peaks. Images of Moira came back, and with them, the feeling of consummate power. The strap tightening around Brandy’s throat, Aileen begging for forgiveness…
With Nicola Tower quiet for once, the selection of words could begin. It had to match the candidate: each was unique. The grass was warm, under the tree, and nothing stirred but the odd cloud in the sky. No children frolicked, no lovers rowed up and down in wooden boats, no motor boats roared, no steamers disturbed the water, and no Harrier jets left thunder in their wake. The lake was perfect, like the Old Man of Coniston himself, behind them. Peace was absolute, and with it came clarity of thought.
It had to be Wordsworth.
And with him, she’d become one with the land again. Like poor Drummer Hodge.
It had been Old Albert’s favourite too.
They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined, just as found:
His landmark is a kopje crest
That breaks the veldt around…
Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge forever be…
Nicola was still quiet after the sun went down behind Coniston Old Man. The Touran had driven around the lake a few times and had returned after sundown to avoid the last rangers.
She was heavy, as was to be expected. That’s why it was important to park as close to the trees as possible, and use the shifting skate. It made a huge difference, and meant that Nicola could be positioned in the perfect spot.
She fell on to the skate with a thud, and it probably broke a few bones, but it didn’t matter now to Nicola; she wouldn’t feel a thing. The moon was a waning crescent, and the heavy cloud conspired with it to provide excellent cover. The Touran’s lights had been switched off since turning off the B5285, at Guards Woods. Rangers looking for illegal campers or fly tippers would have checked the area earlier, and might check again before dawn, depending on their mood. Most people respected the laws of the National Trust.
The lake beckoned, and its black silky surface looked like deep inky oil – so different from this afternoon. This side of Coniston was by far the quietest, and that was the reason for the location. Each candidate had to be matched perfectly to their final resting place. This place was about as quiet as could be found inside the National Park, and that’s why Nicola would have hated it. The serenity, intoxicating calm and regal beauty was the perfect place to introduce Nicola to what she might have been.
Humble.
Moira was left forever exposed (her worst nightmare) in the middle of a village, outside the institution she loathed – the church. Brandy was submerged in clean, fresh running water, to cleanse her of the filth she allowed into her. Poor Ailing Aileen was left overlooking the exquisite perfection of the Lake District, to make sure she never forgot about Nature’s law: that weaklings are a nuisance, and cannot be allowed to drain the resources of others. Now, Nicola, possibly the most irritating woman on the planet, had no-one to talk to anymore, in one of the most isolated locations in the Lakes.
The shifting skate was silent, having being oiled well, and it glided over the dirt easily, towards the lake.
There it was.
No yellow heads sat plump on long green stilts in summer, but it didn’t matter. Nicola was about to become part of this place, like Drummer Hodge, and, in the spring, when the daffodils announced their arrival, she will have helped them on. It was perfect.
She smelled.
That was the problem with summer.
Nicola wouldn’t stay up. She kept leaning maddeningly over to one side. The woman was as exasperating in death as she’d been in life. Finally, she stayed where she was put for her photograph. Her great breasts hung over her huge belly, down to her thighs, but were now cool as ice, and not inviting at all. Her head bent down towards her chest, and her arms were arranged either side of her body. It was as if she was asleep. The cosmetic work could have been better, but it was the thought that counted.
The area was popular with dog walkers, and with the smell she was exuding already, it wouldn’t be long before Nicola Tower became famous: her lifelong dream. These moments spent saying goodbye were always a little disappointing; an anti-climax. The tracks left by the shifting skate were kicked over on the way back to the car, and the boot door slammed down. It was a shame it was all over. Until the next time.
As the car’s engine came to life, a single fat black fly landed on one of Nurse Tower’s wounds, and began its work.