The Frozen Lake: A gripping novel of family and wartime secrets. Elizabeth Edmondson
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call.
‘Michael?’ said the caller. ‘Freddie here. Can we talk?’
‘Go ahead.’ Michael Wrexham balanced the receiver on his shoulder, and put a tick on the sheet in front of him. He was sitting on a high stool at a drawing board. A strong light from an angular lamp clipped to the board cast a brilliant pool on his work. Outside the steamed-up windows of the wooden building, snow pattered down in the darkness, unnoticed. A stove at the other end of the hut kept it warm, if stuffy. There were three drawing boards, and a desk with a typewriter on it. He was the only occupant; the others had long since gone home, and the typewriter had had its cover tucked over it on the dot of five-thirty.
‘Have you noticed the weather, or are you so wrapped up in your blasted aeroplanes that snow passes you by?’
Michael shifted his gaze to the nearest window. ‘It is snowing here, now you come to mention it.’
‘It’s snowing almost everywhere. Especially in the north. What are you doing for Christmas? Any chance of your getting a few days’ leave?’
‘Difficult at the moment, Freddie. There’s a bit of a flap on.’
‘That’s what you always say. Now listen, I feel a terrific urge to get in a bit of skating. I know I won’t be able to entice you to Switzerland, but how about a trip to the Lake District? You must have read that the great lakes are all freezing. We could put up at an inn, I telephoned around and there are two rooms going spare at an inn called the Pheasant, in Westmoreland – a cancellation. A family had booked, but the father’s gone down with measles of all things, poor chap. I feel sorry for them, missing all the fun. A colleague at the hospital says they look after you well there, and the food’s good. The innkeeper, Mr Dixon, is holding the rooms for me, until tomorrow morning. Do say you’ll come. We can walk and skate, it’s a wonderful chance to get those muscles working and breathe a bit of fresh air. You’re no use to anyone cooped up in your office all the hours God gives.’
Michael laughed. ‘I must say, I don’t feel very fit. But I don’t think I can get away.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s tricky just now, you know how things are. Look, leave it with me. I’ll get back to you first thing, one way or the other.’
‘Right-oh. Speak to you then.’
‘Bye, Freddie.’
He put the receiver down and pushed the telephone away. He sat straight on his stool, musing. Westmoreland. He closed his eyes for a minute, seeing the fells, the frozen lake, the craggy landscape of so many childhood holidays. He hadn’t been back for years. Sixteen years, his exact mind told him, when he’d been twelve years old.
He bent over his drawing board once more, slide rule in hand, muttering to himself. The door opened, and a blast of cold air hit the back of his neck. ‘Shut that door,’ he yelled, then turned to see a tall, bearded man standing at the door, the shoulders of his jacket covered in snow. Giles Gibson stamped his feet, leaving a puddle of melting snow about his brogues. ‘Sorry, sir,’ Michael said. ‘Didn’t realize it was you.’
‘It’s late. You should have gone home.’
‘I wanted to get these figures finished.’
‘For the Pegasus?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Are you nearly through?’
He straightened, running a hand through his hair. ‘Another hour should see it done.’
‘Finish it, and then come across to my office, would you?’
‘Yes,’ Michael said, already mentally back with his work.
‘An hour, no more. I’m going out to dinner tonight. I can’t be late, or Marjorie will be annoyed.’
‘Yes. I mean, no. I’ll be there.’
Giles Gibson’s office was in another wooden hut, on the other side of the airstrip. Michael felt his breath taken away by the cold, and set off at a steady jog across the windy spaces. Snow blew into his face, making him blink as fat flakes settled on his eyelashes. He swung up the three steps to Gibson’s hut, knocking at the door as he went in.
‘Snowing hard,’ he said, giving himself a shake.
Gibson was already in his overcoat, sitting behind his desk and shovelling some papers into a drawer before locking it and pocketing the key. ‘Come on, I’ll give you a lift to your digs, you can’t cycle home in this weather.’
‘It’s not as bad as that,’ he protested. ‘Still, I’d be glad of the ride.’
‘We’ll talk on the way.’ Gibson switched off the light over his desk, and followed him out of the door, locking the door and giving it a push to make sure it was secure. Then the two of them hurried, heads down, towards the main buildings, skirting around the edge to the potholed area where Gibson parked his car.
‘Get in,’ Gibson said, going around to the driver’s side. ‘Let’s hope she starts.’
The engine made some dispirited noises, groaned and coughed, and then subsided into silence.
‘I’ll do it,’ Michael said, taking the crank handle from Gibson.
‘Careful, she’s got the devil of a kick,’ Gibson called to him as he went to the front of the car.
‘You’re right about the kick,’ Michael said as he climbed into the car, rubbing his shoulder. He gave the door a tug to close it.
They spluttered down the rutted lane, Gibson peering through the windscreen, where the wipers were fighting a losing battle with the snow.
‘A pal of mine telephoned today,’ Michael said. ‘He wants me to go to Westmoreland for a few days. They say the lakes will freeze over, so one could get some skating in. He’s very keen on winter sports.’
Gibson was hearty in his approval. ‘Excellent. Just the ticket. Fresh air and a bit of exercise. Do you the world of good.’
‘I told him I didn’t think I’d be able to get away.’
‘You did, did you?’
‘If you drop me here at the bottom, I can walk the rest of the way. Then you can take a right turn there and be back on the main road.’
Gibson pulled the car into the side of the road. ‘Ring up your friend, or send him a telegram saying you’ll join him.’ He raised a gloved hand as Michael opened his mouth to protest. ‘No, that’s an order. Finish what you’ve got to do on Pegasus, and then I don’t want to see you again until January.’
Michael got out of the car, thanked Gibson for the lift, and crunched across pristine snow to the small terraced house where he lodged. The hall had a light burning, but the rest of the house was in darkness. His landlady had left him a note. Supper keeping hot in oven, have gone over to be with Mrs Knight, she’s nervous of the snow.
Mrs Knight was nervous of everything. No doubt she thought a vagrant snowman was going to come tapping on her door, all set for a spot of icy rapine and ravaging. He screwed up the note and threw it into the embers of the fire in the kitchen. He put some more coal on the fire, and took out the plate of food from the oven. Congealed meatloaf and lumpy mashed potato. Hadn’t Freddie said the food at the Pheasant was good?
He ate his supper and sat looking into the flames as he drank a cup of tea. He was tired, he had to admit it. Bone tired, after months of long hours and no breaks. Was fatigue affecting his work? Even the simplest calculations seemed to take longer than they used to. Perhaps Gibson was right, and he needed to get away.
He shut his eyes, his mind drifting away to the frozen north. Sixteen years since he’d been there; sixteen years since he’d nearly died of pneumonia. He had been found wandering in a wood, had caught a severe chill, they told him when he was out of danger, and he came around from the lost days of fever to find all memory of the winter holiday wiped from his mind.
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