The Ullswater Undertaking by Rebecca Tope (read dune .TXT) 📕

‘Ages. Christopher says it’s like a Transformer he had as a child. All the baby stuff’s like that.’

‘Keep going to the end of the road then, to give us a bit of time.’

‘Honestly, Ben, this is ridiculous.’ But she parked alongside the pavement as instructed.

‘It’s not, though. Leave it to me. You’ll see this is going to work perfectly.’

He sauntered ahead of her, leaving her to assemble Robin’s transport. The baby took exception to being disturbed and protested vigorously. Ben turned back and gave a discreet thumb’s up sign, as if to suggest that Simmy had deliberately upset her child in order to attract the attention they wanted. Outrage at this idea combined with resentment at the complexity of the buggy’s mechanism to effectively increase Robin’s distress. With a final bad-tempered thrust of the seat into the wheeled frame, Simmy got the flanges and sprockets to click as they were intended, and began to follow Ben. Robin’s cries filled the air.

‘Oh, that poor baby! What’s the matter with him?’ cried the woman they hoped was Mrs Harriman. ‘Are they with you?’ she asked Ben. ‘Why aren’t you helping your mother? See what a pickle she’s in. That blanket’s going to catch in the wheels, look.’

Without another word, she bent over the buggy, straightening the covering and cooing over the furious infant. ‘Would you mind terribly if I got him out?’ she asked Simmy. ‘I am very good with babies. Stay there, you two,’ she ordered the toddlers in her charge. ‘Don’t go into the road.’

Everyone was quickly organised with military precision, and Robin subsided gratefully onto his new friend’s shoulder. ‘Thanks,’ said Simmy on his behalf. ‘He didn’t like being woken up, that’s all.’

The two small children edged closer for a look at the baby. Simmy smiled at them. ‘He’s called Robin,’ she said.

‘That’s a bird,’ said the older child. ‘Like Lark. She’s called Lark.’ He indicated his little companion. ‘She’s my sister. I’m three and she’s two. This is our nanna. We come here because Mummy goes to work.’

‘Lark,’ breathed Simmy. ‘Gosh!’ Names never ceased to fascinate her, given how original her own was.

‘They must be a handful,’ said Ben to the woman. ‘Do you have them every day?’

‘Not quite,’ came the brusque reply. It appeared that questions from young men were regarded as impertinence.

‘Well, thanks for sorting the baby out,’ said Simmy, reaching out to take him back. Seeing him on a strange person’s shoulder was unsettling. ‘We should get on.’ Ignoring Ben’s small hiss of protest, she retrieved Robin, and began to settle him back into his buggy.

‘How old is he?’ asked the woman.

‘Three and a half weeks. I feel as if I’ve had him for ever.’

‘You’re doing well. Nice and confident. Seems as if you’re enjoying it, unlike most.’ She sighed and glanced at her grandchildren. ‘For myself, I can’t get enough of them. I had five, you know.’ She smiled proudly.

‘Like my mum, then,’ said Ben, unthinkingly. Simmy gave him a wide-eyed look of reproach.

‘Oh?’ The woman looked from face to face. ‘Robin’s your fifth, is he?’

It was tempting to let the assumption lie uncorrected. But that carried too much risk. ‘No. It’s a bit complicated. He’s my second, actually, but the first one died.’ It was the first time she had given this information to a casual stranger, and it gave rise to a tidal wave of emotion that came quite out of the blue. ‘She was stillborn,’ she added, wanting to give Edith a clearer identity. ‘Quite a few years ago now.’

‘That’s very sad,’ said Mrs Harriman in a tone that struck precisely the right unsentimental note. ‘Lucky this one’s a boy,’ she added without further explanation. Ben made a sound expressing confusion, but Simmy understood.

Then, as if Providence felt the need to move things along, a big square van pulled up outside a house further down the street. ‘Oh, Lord – more police people,’ said the woman. ‘There’s no end to it.’

‘Is that where someone was murdered?’ Simmy asked quickly. ‘I knew her slightly. Terrible business.’

‘You knew Josephine?’ Suspicion was plain on her face. ‘Is that why you came here?’

‘Er …’ said Simmy. Where had she gone wrong, she asked herself. If there had been a cover story planned, she’d forgotten it.

‘Yes,’ said Ben boldly. ‘It’s awful of us, I know. But sometimes you just can’t resist. We were going into Keswick for some shopping and decided to take a detour to look at the house. It’s funny, isn’t it – the way we all criticise the public for gawping at accidents or murder scenes, and then we do it ourselves. Nobody’s exempt from the herd, when it comes to it.’

‘Um …’ said Mrs Harriman. ‘Well …’

Lark and her brother were getting restive, hopping around each other and looking quite likely to run off in another few moments.

‘Did you know her?’ Ben asked.

‘Of course. She came and helped me with these two, once in a while. Told me a lot about herself, as it happens.’ Again, a look of complacent pride. ‘Quite a clever lady, as I expect you know. Up half the night with her researches. I could see her computer screen flickering from my bedroom. Kept me awake a few times, though I never complained. My own fault for liking to keep the curtains open.’

‘She was clever,’ said Simmy. ‘A real expert, in fact.’

‘What was she researching?’ asked Ben, with another of his annoying direct questions. It occurred to Simmy that his interview technique was sorely lacking in finesse.

‘Don’t ask me. History, I think. Something about the war and the people around Churchill. She never gave me any details. Struck me as a bit dry, to be honest. And then all those filing cabinets arrived. Whatever’s going to happen to all that stuff now, I wonder?’

‘Was she writing a book or something?’ asked Ben.

‘That’s what I presumed, but she never said so exactly. All I can say is she enjoyed a walk with the kiddies, and she was