Page 18 of The Village Midwife
As Lavender began to recount what little she knew of the boat’s history, she stopped to grin at a man with heavy black brows and a mop of grey hair making his way over.
‘All right, trouble?’ he said, kissing Lavender on the cheek. ‘Only here when you want something…nothing changes.’
‘I came because you have no friends and nobody likes you and I didn’t want you to be lonely, but if you don’t want me here…’ Lavender prodded him in the chest, and he chuckled.
‘I want you here,’ he said, turning to smile at Zoe. ‘And you must be the lass from work?’
‘Yes,’ Lavender said. ‘I have friends.’
‘Lavender was telling me what a nice trip it is,’ Zoe said. ‘The boat is gorgeous; I’m looking forward to it.’
‘That’s not a boat,’ Lavender said. ‘That’s his girlfriend.’
‘I can’t argue with that,’ Patrick said. ‘Come on,’ he added. ‘We’ve got a few minutes before we’re due to let everyone board – I’ll let you on first so you can have a sneaky look around.’
Patrick undid a rope that kept the boarding ramp closed off and then led them up it onto the boat, raising a few curious stares from people who were clearly waiting to be shown aboard themselves.
Lavender grinned at Zoe. ‘This must be what it’s like to be on the VIP list at a swanky party.’
‘I wouldn’t know – I don’t think I’ve ever been to a swanky party. Unless you count Abigail Ferrier in year eight, who had three bathrooms in her house.’
‘Perhaps they weren’t posh,’ Patrick called behind him. ‘Perhaps they all had weak bladders.’
Zoe laughed. ‘You might be right. I never thought of that.’
Lavender leaned in. ‘Don’t encourage him. Before you know it, the terrible jokes will be out. He loves it when he gets a new audience.’
‘I don’t mind. I like a dad joke every now and again.’
The deck was furnished in the same gleaming wood as the hull, and there was a cabin with wide windows framed by the same, but the body of it was painted sage green. There were slatted benches running the length of each side of the deck and many more inside, and cheerily striped rubber rings secured along the guardrails. At the stern fluttered a green, white and blue flag on a pole, unfurled every now and again to its full width as the wind lifted the fabric.
Zoe pointed to it. ‘What’s that, Patrick? I’ve never seen that flag before.’
‘That’s Cumbria’s flag, that is,’ Patrick replied with obvious pride. ‘See, all the colours of the lakes on there.’
‘Oh,’ Zoe said, gazing up at it. ‘I didn’t know you had one. It’s nice.’
There wasn’t much time for Patrick’s sneaky advanced tour, but it was just as well. Despite the boat being beautiful, it was compact and there wasn’t all that much to see.
Five minutes later, Zoe and Lavender found a seat on the deck, and then the boat began to fill with the people who had bought tickets to join them. Everyone seemed so excited and happy to be there that even if she’d wanted to avoid catching the enthusiasm in the air, it would have been impossible. Someone brought an adorable cocker spaniel aboard and sat close to Zoe,sending Lavender into raptures as she fussed it. Zoe listened politely as the woman explained it was an orange roan, and Lavender asked the sorts of questions that told Zoe she knew some facts about the breed already.
When the boat was full, they cast off, and then a sort of hush fell over everyone. There was chatting, but it was mostly in reverent tones about the scenery as they cleaved a graceful path across the water. The lake was like glass, reflecting the hills and valleys crowded along the shore as if a mirror world lay beneath its surface. The sun was mellow and warm on Zoe’s face, but the breeze stirred by the boat moving lifted her hair and cooled her neck. As she twisted to lean over the rail, watching and listening as the water rushed along the sides of the boat, she wondered if she’d ever felt so contented in her life. But it wasn’t to last because just as she was completely in the moment, Ritchie’s text arrived to shatter her peace.
My phone reminders say it’s five years ago today that we went to Lake Garda. Do you remember that old Italian man in the café who was trying to chat you up? It still makes me laugh. Good times, eh? x
Zoe recalled the day, vividly now, but it hadn’t played in the good-natured way Ritchie was describing. In her version, the old man who’d owned the café they’d wandered into had been a sweet soul, who’d only been interested in Zoe because his first great-grandchild had just been born, and Zoe had gone over to the pram next to the counter to admire the little one and had struck up a faltering conversation – alternating between broken Italian and English – telling him she was a midwife. He’d been so pleased to learn this that he’d offered her a free glass of some local liqueur and an almond cake he’d baked himself.
Ritchie had sat at the table a few feet away, looking at his phone, and when the old man came over to introduce himself, he’d seemed…Zoe had struggled for years to admit what she’d seen in his face that day, and many other times during their marriage. Instead, she’d done her best to ignore his displays of possessive jealousy because to acknowledge it would be to face a painful truth. Ritchie wasn’t keen on Zoe having a life outside their marriage, and he didn’t like sharing her attention with anyone.
The notion of what he might have been like had their baby survived and grown into a child who would naturally demand so much of her time had troubled her in a vague way, but it had been overshadowed by the weight of the loss itself. She tried not to think about it now as the boat glided across Ullswater, and wondered, perhaps a little unreasonably, if throwing her phone into the lake would mean she wouldn’t have to respond to a text that had gone a long way to ruining her day.
In the end, all she could send as a reply was:ha ha, yes, before stuffing her phone firmly into the depths of her handbag and feeling that, if ever a text had been wholly inadequate in addressing a situation, it had to be this one.
7
Zoe’s third Monday morning arrived, and as she drove down the steep track that led from her cottage into the village, she recalled that Victor had offered to carry out some repairs to make the journey easier for her. Ottilie had warned when she’d first arrived it was a tricky drive, though she conceded that Zoe was a more confident driver than she was and probably wouldn’t break a sweat. While Zoe appreciated the compliment, she had found it trying, especially after rain. This morning she noticed it was easier and assumed that whatever improvements he’d intended to make had been done at some point during the weekend. Zoe had to admit she hadn’t noticed much in the way of noise, but her cottage was set a field or more away from the section Victor had worked on, and perhaps that, coupled with the very loud music she’d played as she’d cleaned the house, had been enough to shield her from it.
Close to the junction at the foot of the hill, where the track forked to go up to Hilltop, the neighbouring farm, or to join the road into the village, Zoe was forced to move over to allow a van to squeeze past. It was a good size, and there was just about room for the both of them, but that wasn’t what suddenlycaught Zoe’s full attention. In the driver’s seat was the man she’d met on the day she’d first got the keys to her cottage. Next to him was a slight, pale young woman. She had narrow shoulders and long, honey-blonde hair tucked behind her ears. From the brief glimpse Zoe managed to get, she was pretty in a demure, unassuming sort of way, but there was obvious stress in her features. Instantly, Zoe recalled the name of an expectant mum who was due to move into Hilltop. Was this her?
