Page 58 of Summer Showers at Elder Fell Farm

The Hills and the Good Lord

Amy tried to carry on as normal. Since James had left her, she’d kept going through everything for Harry’s sake and this was no different. Instead of thinking about what had happened, she told Harry about what the cottage had once been like; the sense of faded comfort and lives having been lived there for centuries, before it became this empty shell. She went to the old cupboard to see if the visitors’ books were still there. Her mam had loved reading through all the entries previous holidaymakers had left — stories, tips and hints about the cottage. Perhaps she’d be able to find some of the paragraphs her mam had left about their holidays.

That would stop her thinking about Matt and that kiss. That one, perfect kiss. She could still sense the way their lips had touched, still feel his hands in her hair, his body against hers.

The ancient cupboard door was swollen but she pulled it open, trying to force the thought of Matt to the back of her mind. She took out the little key ring torch from her backpack to shine inside the dark cupboard — she didn’t want to encounter any unexpected spiders lurking in the depths. There didn’t seem to be any spiders, but there was a visitors’ book though it was from after the time she and her mam had been there. Underneath it was an old photograph album, a faded label on the front reading “Elder Fell Cottage Pictures”; the self-adhesive pages were yellowing and the plastic covers peeling. It must be one the Thompsons had made for the cottage when it was still let out.

There were pictures of Elder Fell Cottage itself, inside and outside, of the countryside around it, of Elderthwaite village and Elder Fell Farm as well as of the mountains and Loverswater twenty or thirty years ago. The colours had started to fade to yellows and browns, the sharp greens and blues of the grass and the sky had dulled and dimmed, but still the places and people were recognisable. There were some photographs of the Thompsons, and now she saw them back then, she realised how much older Mrs. Thompson did look now. In these pictures she was a farmer’s wife in her prime, buxom and hearty with red cheeks, even though she’d seemed so old back then to Amy’s younger self. There was their son, Peter, a strong-looking man, perhaps in his early thirties, standing beside the gate to the cottage. It was strange; she remembered him as a stern, forbidding man, tall, dark-eyed and glowering. He had scared her back then and her heart would sink when she came down for breakfast in the morning to find he’d brought up the milk from the farm and was sitting at the kitchen table, but in this photograph, smiling at the cottage gate, he looked different to the man she remembered. This Peter was muscular, tanned and undeniably handsome. He reminded her of Matt …

No. She wasn’t going to think about him now.

Harry was fidgeting again, forcing her to turn the last few pages of the album more quickly. The final couple of images were of Loverswater.

‘Boring!’ said Harry. ‘Oh look, there’s Granny Jen!’

Amy looked. In one of the photos a slim figure in a red bikini stood in the tarn, up to her waist in water, hair blowing over her face. It couldn’t possibly be Granny Jen; Harry must be imagining things.

‘No, these photos are all the Thompsons. It’s probably one of their family. It does look a bit like her, but I can’t imagine Granny would ever have worn a red bikini!’ She almost laughed out loud at the idea as she looked out of the window. There was no sign of Matt and Oliver on the track outside. By now they must have had enough time to get back to the campsite.

‘Come on then, let’s head back.’ Replacing the album in the carved wall cupboard she pushed the door shut again with a creak, pausing to trace the intertwined initials with her finger. The letters J and E were woven through an ornate letter T, with the date 1704 beneath it. She wondered if the T stood for Thompson.

‘Can we sleep here one night?’ Harry said as they went over to the door.

‘I don’t think so. We’ve got our tent. Don’t you want to sleep there?’

He shrugged and she let him go out of the door in front of her. Something was playing on his mind; he was unusually quiet, and didn’t protest when she said no.

‘You snogged Oliver’s dad,’ he said as she pulled the door of the cottage shut behind her. It was warped and hard to close, jarring against the frame, and she had to try three times with increasing force before she could get it closed. ‘Did you want to?’

‘I did.’ She wasn’t going to lie to him. Or at least, she wasn’t going to lie to him much.

‘Why?’

‘Because … because I like him, Harry.’ She wrestled with the big key in the lock. It finally turned with a loud clunk. ‘He’s kind and thoughtful.’

‘And does he like you back?’ He was watching her closely.

‘I thought so. When we were kissing it felt like he did, but … you know, Harry, it’s been very difficult for Matt and for Oliver since Stella died. I think it might have been too soon. It was probably a mistake.’ She busied herself with the padlock and gave the door a rattle to make sure it was secure.

‘Yeah, it probably was, ‘cos if you’re with his dad, then we might have to live in the same house as Oliver, and I don’t want him coming in my bedroom when I’m not there and touching my things.’

‘Harry, it was only one kiss,’ she said carefully. ‘I don’t think you need to worry about sharing a house with Oliver right now. It was just … oh, just something that happened one rainy afternoon in the Lakes and will probably never happen again. A mistake.’ She tried not to let her sadness at the thought creep into her voice. Harry didn’t need to know what that kiss had awakened in her. ‘Just a holiday romance.’

Even as she said it, she knew it wasn’t true; not for her, at any rate. It might be different for Matt, but now she knew what it was like she wanted more than one kiss, more than one week, more than one holiday. It was as if —

‘Did you have a one-night stand-up with him?’ Harry asked suddenly, snapping her out of her reverie.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or be horrified, but she had to answer. ‘No! I kissed him, that’s all. A one-night stand is something completely different. How do you know about one-night stands, Harry?’

‘Darcey-Mae told me about it. Her mum did it once and her dad was angry. I thought it was a kissing thing. Kissing somebody standing up. If it’s not kissing, what’s a one-night stand-up?’

‘Well …’ Her mind whirled in so many directions it was hard to know how to reply. ‘I suppose it’s a kind of kissing thing.’ That was the best she could do just then; he didn’t need to know anything more. He was only eight, after all.

‘Oh good. I thought it might have been doing sex with someone,’ he said pragmatically. ‘And you wouldn’t want to do that with Oliver’s dad, would you? Dis-gust-ing. Can we have hot chocolate again tonight?’

‘Yes, we can have hot chocolate,’ she said with relief. Hot chocolate was much easier to discuss with a curious eight-year-old than sex was.

‘And can Oliver come and listen to the Titty book?’

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