The Lake by Louise Sharland (best ereader for pc txt) 📕

phone against my palm. ‘No, no!’ I fumble to try the power button again, my fingers like sticks. ‘What’s going on?’

Low battery – emergency calls only

‘No,’ I yell, ‘please, no!’ But the screen emits a final blush and then fades.

I ransack the wardrobe, tossing the document box and headscarves on the bed, the clothes on the floor, but there is no charger. I feel the panic rising in my chest like a fever. I race downstairs, grab my handbag, and almost tear the blue pills from their hiding place in the inside pocket. I pop one into my mouth and swallow it dry.

I wake up on the sofa covered in a musty old throw. I check my watch. It’s nearly four o’clock – too late to make it into the mobile phone shop in Tavistock. Not like they’ll have any chargers for a five-year-old Nokia anyway. I head back upstairs and begin tidying away my mother’s things. Glad to be kept busy, I grab an old flannel and dust the figurines and knick-knacks that dot the shelves, windowsill and just about every other available surface.

‘Where did you get all this rubbish?’ I exhale deeply. Then something strikes me. I check my watch, grab my trainers, and try to put them on while combing my hair at the same time. My reflection in the entrance hall mirror is grim, but I’m not interested in how I look.

I race down the narrow road that leads from my mother’s house to the tiny high street. Pub, hairdressers, convenience store, and to my left, a smart gallery that garners most of its income from well-off tourists buying overpriced art. I stop in front of a small shopfront with a large hand-painted sign that reads Bling and Things, and, in smaller letters, all proceeds to Children’s Hospice Southwest.

This charity shop has been around for as long as I can remember and has had more incarnations than Dr Who. Cats Protection League, RNLI, Macmillan Nurses – they all start off well, but it’s not long before business drops off and eventually the shop window is soaped up and a To Let sign stuck on the front door. A bell attached to the door chimes as I enter, and somewhere in the background I can hear classical music playing. The old, mottled carpet I remember from my childhood has been removed to expose freshly polished oak floorboards. There are boxes of china, still wrapped in packing paper, and to my right a small mountain of Ikea shelving units waiting to be installed. Racks of old clothing have been pushed to a far wall and someone has started to put together a modern-looking corrugated iron hanging unit. As I move further to the back of the shop, however, it becomes more and more like the charity shop of old. Shoes that have seen better days are stacked in piles next to cuddly toys, and a nearby table is overloaded with lamps, kettles and even a sandwich toaster.

‘They’ve all been PAT tested,’ comes a voice from behind me.

I turn. ‘Pardon me?’

‘Electrical safety test.’ It’s an older woman, around my mother’s age. ‘That’s what that little sticker indicates.’

I nod. ‘I’m not really after a sandwich toaster.’

The woman tilts her head. ‘Katie, is that you?’

I feel my heart sink. I was hoping to avoid old acquaintances as much as possible while I’m in Cornwall – not that I had very many when I lived here in the first place.

‘Katie, it’s me. Helen.’

‘Helen?’ I feel my face flush in embarrassment. How could I forget the teaching assistant who singly helped me get through A Level Biology? ‘Helen! I’m so sorry I didn’t recognise you.’

She emerges from behind the counter and engulfs me in an enormous hug. I stiffen, but the warmth of her body reminds me of all those hours in the Sixth Form Centre, just the two of us, side by side, trying to learn about microbiology and pathogens. I find myself relaxing into her embrace. After a moment she steps back.

‘I heard about your mum. How is she?’

‘Not bad. Still in ICU but conscious.’

‘Well that’s good news.’

‘It is.’

‘And how are you finding it?’ she asks gently, knowingly. ‘Being back here I mean?’

‘Harder than I thought.’ She nods but says nothing. I don’t want to be having this conversation, but this woman was instrumental in helping me get away from here, from my mother. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t kept in touch.’

‘It’s fine, love. I understand.’

‘It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

‘Six years now.’

Now I remember. The last time I saw Helen was at Michael’s funeral.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t …’ I realise I’m repeating myself and decide to change the subject. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Well, I’d been helping out now and again in the shop, whatever form it took, for years,’ she says, smiling. ‘So when I retired last year, I decided to take it on full time.’

‘I can’t imagine you retiring.’

‘Nor could my husband. Said I was driving him crazy.’ She spreads her arms wide. ‘So here I am.’ I forget the diary; the mobile; my mother; I just feel calm. ‘I’m trying to posh it up a bit,’ she continues. ‘I want to increase footfall and revenue. There’s still loads of work to do but I’m getting there.’

I find myself smiling. Just like Helen to take on a project with absolute determination. Just the kind of person I need on my side.

‘Helen,’ I say with unexpected shyness. ‘I wonder if you might be able to help me?’

We spend the next half hour looking through shelves, boxes, and the storage cupboard. With her eye for detail, Helen is able to go through a snakes’ nest of old electrical cords and phone chargers, handing me one possibility after another: try this one, love. When we exhaust that search, she moves on to the crawl space behind the boiler, emerging with a large shoe box.

‘There’s always more junk to be found,’ she says, pulling cobwebs from her hair. ‘I could do with a