A story for Lammas

Ullswater

The lake’s ferry boat slid easily up to the jetty at Glenridding, barely disturbing the rhythmic slap of water against wood as the crewman jumped to terra firma, a heavy rope looped over his shoulder.
I pulled my fleece closer as a gust of wind bit sharply against my back. The light changed again and the previously jewelled trees softened, forming an unremarkable dull streak against the lake edge. Sparkling water turned to darkness.
My eyes shifted to the wooden boat, now moored safely against the jetty. Cold, tired passengers hurried to the café, eager for the comfort of hot coffee and bacon sandwiches after a long day walking the steep hills.
For a moment I forgot why I was here; lost in memory. That day, there had been a swan cruising the shore line; aloof and alone amongst the tiny ducks. An arrogant sense of its own beauty had prevented the bird from begging for bread, preferring instead to coax tourists into presenting him personally with the tastiest morsels. We had laughed at the visitors who were ignorant of the swan’s regular game and were hushed by the toddler whose eyes widened in awe at the size and brilliance of the elegant creature.
You pointed out the memorial to Donald Campbell erected by his granddaughter and teased me with your imagined plan to beat his 1955 record of 215mph across the lake. I knew then you were probably serious.
I smiled to myself, but the sight of the grey stone with its plaque stole my laughter. The pain of a more recent memory ripped through my heart and I quickly looked away.
“Are you getting on board love? We’re about to cast off and there isn’t another boat until tomorrow” a cheery voice on deck interrupted my musing.
“Oh yeah, sorry, I was just…..” my voice dried.
“Looking at the view,” finished the man, “it’s beautiful. I’ve worked the boats here for twenty years and I never tire of it.”
I smiled at him in reply, picked up my rucksack and climbed the gangway. I passed the greying boatman my ticket and noted his seasoned leather complexion and layers of muted coloured jumpers; both were comfortable and reassuring. Walking briskly along the deck, adjusting my step to the gentle swaying of the boat, I descended the three short steps into the cabin and sat down at our favourite window seat.
Darkening mounds towered high above the lake edges, resembling mud pies dropped carelessly by a giant’s child a millennia ago. Now covered in a patchwork of chocolate brown and muted mossy greens; some were capped with plantations of trees, orderly as they tickled the sky.
The boat chugged steadily across the lake on its journey to Howtown and Pooley Bridge, the shoreline a rolling animation, revealing hidden beaches and tree kissed water. The warmer lower slopes were quilted by soft green grass, sprinkled with leafy trees and flowering shrubs. The grand homes of 19th century industrialists, now hotels, retained their rich, almost sanitised aloofness. Your rant about ‘the exploitation of the countryside by rich tourists’ had only been silenced by the whiskey fuelled hot chocolate in my flask.
That last time had been early March. Jack Frost was regularly sprinkling the countryside with lace overnight. On the boat it had been even colder, forcing us to sit inside as our ears burned with hot-aches. The hamlet Bennet Head and scattered farm cottages had beckoned with implied warmth and sanctuary.
The bare wintry view had been enchanting. The trees held their breath through the chill, reserving energy for the spring burst, a promise of the future. Maybe that’s what had inspired you to talk about weddings and my heart to skip a beat.
The boat turned and copses gave way to wrinkled dumpling folds of rich peat. Burnt orange gorse bushes clumped in small crowds as the slopes steepened, thinning as rocks became blue-purple near the summits.
The smell of moving water and freshly stirred air drew my attention to the spray, sparkling in the sun light, denying the chill. I stared across the stern as the steady wake of the boat created self repeating turbulence; the order amongst the chaos. Water sprites played as the waves broke; spitting spray into the air, tempting the sky bound spirits to a duel.
As the boat reached the centre of the lake, I stood decisively and climbed the steps leading to the breezy deck. You held my hand last time, making sure I didn’t stumble as the sway rocked us against each other. My memory of that day is warm and sunny although it had been cold; we’d wrapped up like children ready for snowball fights and you’d laughed at my fluffy hat. Strange, I clearly recall the warmth and strength of your hand that day, yet I can’t remember where we went after the boat trip.
On deck the steady thrum of the engines and the quiet chatter of an elderly couple seemed odd, almost out of place. As I willed them to go below deck, the white haired lady met my eyes for a moment. Her expression showed concern. Suddenly embarrassed by my comprehension, she looked away. Her watery blue eyes settled on her husband as he gently took her hand and pointed to the brood of ducks battling the wake.
The boat bucked as I escaped their completeness and I stumbled against the guard rail. I paused, steadying myself. Reaching into my rucksack I pulled out the thick, opaque plastic bag I’d collected four days ago and walked to the stern with the wind swirling freshly behind me. The bag’s weight had been a surprise; heavy, but without substance.
As the sun came out beams touched the spray and refracted blue flashes danced across my eyes. I tipped the bag and watched as the ash danced in the air, before descending to play with the water sprites below.
My task complete, I stood alone.

Liz