Page 169 of Wife After Wife
That’s when the idea came to her. “You’re forgetting, I’m from Cumbria. Surely you love the Lake District.Everyoneloves the Lake District, even if it’s usually pouring with rain.”
“I’ve never been. Why would I? I have a house in Bermuda.”
“Right. I’ll meet you up north. When you’ve finished in Manchester, you can come and stay in my apartment. You do have a pair of walking boots?”
“Will green wellies do?”
“No. Don’t worry, we’ll buy you some in Kendal.”
“Is that where the mint cake comes from?”
“It is! We can get some.”
“But it’s horrible.”
“Cumberland sausage?”
“Better.”
Clare drove up on Friday, and Harry met her at the apartment after his meeting with the unions.
“How did it go?” she asked, showing him in.
“As expected. One of the shop stewards called me a ginger tyrant. I don’t suppose you’d allow me a small beer?”
“Oh dear. Yes, I think perhaps I should. In fact, let’s abandon the no-alcohol policy this weekend. At least—if you agree to climb a minimum of two fells.”
“Fells? Why don’t they call them hills, like a normal person?”
“Go and change, Mr. Grumpy. I’ll pour you that beer.”
•••
Now they were on the apartment balcony, looking out across the mountains on a beautiful June evening. A buzzard wheeled high in the sky above them, and the only sound was the gentle calling of sheep on the hillsides. Clare gave a sigh of pleasure. She could feel the magic of the Lakes spreading like a balm through her veins. She hoped the same was happening to Harry.
She looked across at him. He’d closed his eyes and was leaning back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his face tilted toward the evening sun. Now that his health was back on track, and he’d lost the beard, he looked ten years younger than the first time he’d appeared in Dr. Butts’s waiting room. He could pass for a man of forty. A ridiculously good-looking man of forty.
He opened his eyes and smiled at her, and something shifted inside.
Picking up his beer, he looked out across the fells. “Hm, I see now, there’s more to this place they call the north than mills, cobblestones, and stroppy workers.”
“Wait until you’re up on the fell tops. There’s nowhere like it.”
“Which one is the hill with the daffodils?”
“They’re fells, but anyway, it was a lake they were fluttering beside.”
“No, he was wandering o’er vale and hill. See, he said ‘hill,’ not ‘fell.’”
“Well, ‘hill’ rhymes with ‘daffodil.’”
“He could’ve written about bluebells. That would have rhymed with ‘fells.’”
“You have a point. And I’ve always found that phrase ‘lonely as a cloud’ highly suspect. If there’s one thing about Lake District clouds, it’s that they’re not lonely. They come in packs and obliterate the sky. You’re lucky to see it clear like this.”
“Thank you for bringing me here. It’s very pretty, I’ll give you that.”
“It’s the best place in the world.”
