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

Events in August

Lennoxton will be opening its doors once again to poets from around the United Kingdom as part of our annual residential poetry summer school (in conjunction with the Lennoxton Summer Lecture Series). Geared towards emerging poets, the summer school will comprise a five-day residential experience to include group workshops, one-to-one tutorials, and plenty of time to write. Included in the price is room and board, and WiFi. No experience necessary, just a desire to explore your creative side and a willingness to learn. For more information contact …

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Note: Due to unforeseen circumstances, local poet Maire Donaldson will no longer be leading the residential experience this year. However, we are pleased to announce that celebrated Canadian-British poet Desra McKinley will be directing the week. Click here for more details. We are also delighted to announce that acclaimed Scottish poet and Saltire Society Scottish Poetry Book of the Year Award winner (2003) Professor Findlay Cardew will be presenting the final address as part of the Lennoxton Summer Lecture Series on the last night of the summer school.

It’s time to send an email.

My enquiry about the poetry summer school receives a response the following morning.

Thank you for your enquiry regarding the poetry residential summer school at Lennoxton Academy. Due to a last-minute cancellation there is a single place left on the course. We will require a non-refundable deposit of £75 within the next 24 hours to secure your place. As per instructions on the website, all travel arrangements and associated expenses are the responsibility of the guests. Please click on this link to secure your place.

I don’t hesitate. Grabbing my credit card from my purse, I book, uncertain if or how I will get there. Running it by Adam will be quite a challenge. I can’t see him being thrilled about my going to Scotland for a week. Trying to sell him on the fact that I have suddenly developed an interest in writing poetry will be my biggest challenge yet. All I know is that if I’m going to find out the truth about Michael’s death, I need to get to Scotland and ingratiate myself with Susan O’Neill – I mean Desra McKinley. This is now bigger than Adam and bigger than me. Maybe I can use the move to Bristol as leverage; a negotiating tool. I’d better think of something fast though. It’s just over two weeks until the course begins.

24

‘You realise that the estate agent is coming to look at the house tomorrow?’ Adam is standing in the kitchen, noisily slurping his tea; a sure sign that he’s angry. ‘We’ve still got a lot to do.’ He puts his mug down on the table with a thud. ‘There are rooms to clear; the loft to empty.’

I wait for my bagel to pop up from the toaster before replying. ‘Don’t worry, darling – I’ll sort it all out.’

‘When will you sort it all out?’

I look over at him, smile, and say calmly, ‘When I’m bloody well ready.’

Occasionally, when I have drunk too much wine or indulged in one blue pill too many, I have a private moment of courage or resolve. Something, however, has shifted since the return from our weekend in Dorset. Maybe it’s my renewed sense of purpose; or perhaps it’s the thoughtless blatancy of Adam’s behaviour, accepting that job in Bristol without even asking me, that has made me so angry and so bold. Most likely it’s the sixty-thousand-pound legacy my mother left for Grace and me, as well as the estimated value of the house with its ‘original Georgian features’ and ‘exquisite riverside location’, at nearly two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.

‘What the hell has gotten into you?’ Adam yells, but there’s something different in his tone. It’s as if he knows that I can’t be intimidated any more; that I don’t care. The freedom offered by my mother’s legacy, along with my decision to register for the summer school, has given me a giddy sort of confidence.

‘You’d better get to work,’ I say dismissively, ‘or you’ll be late.’

I spend the day sorting out the house in preparation for viewings and doing more research.

Adam arrives home and I find myself carefully tiptoeing around his sullen mood and trying to cheer him up. I still must tell him about Scotland after all.

‘Why don’t I get us a curry?’ I say, handing him a glass of wine. ‘We can watch a film and maybe have an early night?’

Relaxing on the settee, Adam gives an indifferent shrug, but I can tell that the chill is beginning to thaw. I drive the few miles to our local curry house, humming to music along the way. I return home a half hour later to find the sitting room empty.

‘Adam?’ He’s not in the kitchen or dining room. I go upstairs to check the bedroom, thinking that maybe he’s having a nap. I hear a noise at the end of the hall, from my office. I approach cautiously, dreading what I might find.

‘Adam,’ I whisper, pushing open the door. ‘Is that you?’ Inside, I find the drawers of my filing cabinet have been thrown open. There are papers strewn across my desk. My husband looks up at me from where he’s sitting. On the desk in front of him is Michael’s laptop.

‘What’s the password?’ he says.

It takes a few seconds before the anger kicks in. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

‘I knew there was a reason for all that attitude,’ he says, pointing a finger at me. ‘You’ve never stopped looking into Michael’s death, have you?’

‘How dare you break into my files?’

‘What, these?’ he says, picking up one of the folders. ‘Investigations of possible police corruption?’ He points to another. ‘Or research on how funding cutbacks have compromised forensic investigations?’

‘You have no right!’

‘I have every right,’ he counters, ‘especially if my wife is losing her fucking mind!’

‘How dare you!’

‘How dare I?’ Adam