The couple he’d left behind were deliberately friendly towards him when he served the breakfasts they’d ordered, as if they wished to emphasize that there was nothing personal in their rejection of his conversational sallies. The man must be ten years older than the girl, he thought — when you were approaching sixty and had grandchildren, all women under thirty were girls to you. She had bacon and egg and tomato. The man had the full English, which he despatched with amazing speed and obvious relish. He told the chef it was good bacon and sausage and cooked just right. It seemed he wished to compensate for his earlier brisk rejection of the news.
They disappeared from the dining room as the first of his other guests entered it, as if they wished to preserve themselves from any further discussion of events in the vulgar world around them. Detective Chief Inspector ‘Percy’ Peach and Detective Sergeant Lucy Peach had signed into the hotel as plain Mr and Mrs Peach. In a few minutes, they would pay their bill and sign out again. Peach would put something complimentary in the visitors’ book, but they would remain Mr and Mrs Peach as they departed. There was nothing unusual in that. Police officers prefer to conceal their calling; they consider it politic to do so in our civilized twenty-first century. Most of the men and women who serve in uniform prefer to don the garb of their trade only at work; they leave it behind in the locker room when they finish the working day, shedding their work along with their clothing.
Percy and Lucy were members of the CID, of that elite police section which operates throughout the day in plain clothes, attempting as far as possible to blend into the world around it. But they still preferred to keep the nature of their work secret, unless they were asked directly about it by innocent strangers, when both of them found it difficult to lie. As Lucy brushed her teeth vigorously in their bathroom, Percy said, ‘Our last day. Best make it a good ’un.’
‘If you’d let me listen to the weather forecast, we’d know better what to do now.’
Percy eyed the small patch of blue sky he could see through their window, watched a white cloud race quickly across it. He said with all the confidence he could muster, ‘Bright. Breezy. Possibility of an occasional shower. Keep waterproofs handy in the rucksacks.’ He sought something which would add the edge of reality to his forecast. ‘Probably not warm enough for outdoor nooky.’
‘Thank you, Mr Weatherman. That’s quite enough of that.’ She emerged from the bathroom in jeans and anorak. ‘Ready for action when you are.’ She caught an instant reaction in those dark eyes as he reached out lustful arms. ‘Walking action please, Casa-bloody-nova!’
Three hours later, they were two thousand feet up on the slopes of Crinkle Crags, looking back at Red Tarn and the track they had climbed. No rain yet, but a brisk breeze around their ears as the sun climbed higher. Percy breathed deeply of the cool, clean air and accepted a square of chocolate as they paused to rest before the steep climb up to the crags above them. ‘All this bracing air, all this spring sunshine, all this magnificent scenery, and the finest backside in Britain moving two yards ahead of me!’ he murmured euphorically.
‘Don’t you ever think of anything else?’ said Lucy, shifting a little on the rock to accommodate the backside in question.
‘Not if I can help it,’ said Percy happily. ‘You said we had to forget all about work and your bum helps me to do that more than most things. It’s good to have such ambrosia perpetually on tap, now that we’re married. It’s like having your own real ale on draught, only better!’ He lay back with his head flat against the sloping fellside, chewing happily on the stalk of coarse moorland grass he had plucked.
Lucy felt that she should make a feminist protest about male assumptions of ownership, but she couldn’t quite isolate the right phrase to attack. It was much better to be appreciated than ignored, her mother always reminded her. Mrs Blake was an enthusiastic and consistent admirer of Percy, when she might have been expected to reject him as a divorced man ten years older than her daughter. The elderly widow of seventy and the bouncy little detective of thirty-nine got on as no one could have predicted and it was a formidable alliance. The starting point had been Percy’s twinkle-footed prowess as a Lancashire League batsman; Agnes Blake had been a devoted cricket fan since her girlhood.
Lucy contented herself in the end with saying firmly, ‘A mature man like you should be able to control your lust after almost a year of marriage. You can lead over the next bit. You’ll need to keep your attention off my contours and firmly on Wainwright.’
Percy consulted the famous guidebook ostentatiously. ‘Piece of cake, for a fit youngster like you, he says. Old men like me have to watch their step on the second Crinkle.’ It was over fifty years since the grand old man of Lakeland had published this book. He was long dead now, but still overwhelmingly the best guide to walking in the mountains. Percy felt that using the guide he had first handled as a boy, with its detailed drawings and helpful, humorous text, was a kind of homage to the man who had so loved these heights.
They worked their way up the long, zigzag climb to the first Crinkle, then along the mile of magnificent scrambling, with its series of dramatic views to either side and the gradually emerging view of Bowfell to the north. The wind was strong here, at nearly three thousand feet, so that sometimes you used hands as well as feet to keep your balance. But they had anoraks zipped high and woollen bobble hats, so that the stiff breeze only made the experience of the finest ridge walk in Britain more exhilarating.
The Easter holiday for schools was well over now, and they met only a few fellow enthusiasts in this wild place, most of them traversing the ridge in the opposite direction. They were completely alone when they reached the end of the ridge and stood looking down into Great Langdale. Percy put his arms round Lucy, with their bodies braced against the wind. They didn’t need words as he held her for a long thirty seconds. In this high, remote place, where you felt nearer to whatever gods you did or did not believe in, the moment felt like another step forward in their relationship.
Then they retraced their steps along the ridge and began the descent. As they left the last of Crinkle Crags, the cloud dropped like a damp grey blanket around them and there was a sudden fierce shower. It seemed that nature wished to remind them that this could be a dangerous as well as an invigorating place. They were soon out of the cloud as they descended, and their clothes dried quickly in the steady breeze. They made rapid, easy progress back towards the car they had parked on Wrynose Pass.
They grabbed a meal in Ambleside, where Percy bought Cumberland sausage as a culinary reminder of their first days in Lakeland together. Silence dropped in over tired limbs as they drove the car to the M6 and so south to Brunton and to work. They were passing Lancaster when Lucy said sleepily, ‘Alfred Wainwright came from Brunton, you know. He worked in local government there. Then he discovered the Lakes.’
‘As we have done all over again, together,’ said Percy dreamily. It was an uncharacteristically sentimental vein for him. As if to correct himself, he added a moment later, ‘The best backside in Britain will be even more muscular and rounded, after all that effort.’
‘Keep your brain alert and your eyes firmly on the road, please.’
When they reached Percy’s ageing semi-detached house in the old cotton town, they made mugs of tea, unpacked swiftly and prepared to tumble into bed and into sleep. ‘That bathroom’s as cold as ever. I’m going to do something about it before next winter!’ said Lucy as she emerged in her nightdress and leapt breathlessly beneath the duvet.