‘There,’ he said. ‘The very last photograph my father took for the family album. Recognise the scene? Dad took this, he was standing outside this window. Barrie used to help his mother in the garden, but you can see it was wild even then.’
Miranda studied the photo. ‘Neither of you believed in combing your hair for the camera.’
He grinned. ‘Like I said, people don’t change.’
‘How did you meet?’
‘I bumped into him at the start of the holiday, after Dad decided we’d climb to Priest Edge while the girls looked round Brack. Barrie was coming in the opposite direction. He said hello — abruptly, he had a jerky way of talking, but I didn’t mind. Soon we were in deep conversation. My father went on ahead, but Barrie showed me a short cut along the coffin trail.’
She knitted her brow. ‘The coffin trail?’
He pointed through the window, towards the hillside. ‘See the stony track in the distance, disappearing behind the trees? That’s the coffin trail.’
‘So it’s a path?’
‘Yes, there are several in the Lakes. Often called corpse roads. Years ago, the trail was the route that mourners took when they buried their dead. There was no church in the next valley in those days, so a packhorse carried the body over the top of the hill and then down to St Helen’s in Brack.’
Miranda’s eyes widened. ‘They loaded a dead person onto a horse?’
‘Having first blindfolded it. When the funeral party was ready to start the journey, they put on blinkers.’
She shivered. ‘Poor creature.’
‘What amazes me is how those ponies managed to pick their way up and down the fells with such a burden on their back. The coffin trail is steep, although it makes a terrific short-cut. My father was a fit man, but Barrie and I reached the Sacrifice Stone first. From that moment on, we were firm friends. I’m not sure that Barrie had ever made a friend before. The fact that I came from outside made a difference. He could show me places, be in charge. I didn’t have any preconceived ideas, I just took him at face value. I think he liked that.’
‘What about Mrs Gilpin?’
‘She made me nervous. Barrie was in awe of her. He might have been clumsy, but even at that age he was big and strong. Nothing seemed to make him afraid — not swinging from a tree branch, not picking up an adder and wrapping it over his hand. But he was terrified of his mother’s wrath. She was small and fragile, but when she went on the warpath, he would cower in a corner and make noises like a stuck pig.’
‘But he wasn’t violent?’
He shook his head. ‘Let me tell you a story. A couple of days before the end of my holiday, Barrie persuaded me to follow his lead. He loved to swing from the tree, over the tarn. I kept waiting for the branch to snap, but it never happened. He assured me it was perfectly safe and in the end I accepted his dare.’
‘Don’t tell me — the branch broke.’
‘No, more embarrassing than that. I lost my grip and fell into the tarn. The shock of the cold water nearly stopped my heart. It was choked with weeds and when I went under I was afraid I’d never get back to the surface. For a few seconds I was sure I was about to drown.’
‘What happened?’
‘Barrie jumped in and rescued me. He picked me up and put me under his arm and seconds later he’d laid me out on dry land. I was crying from the shock, but he calmed me down. When his mother came out to see the cause of the commotion, he made up a story. I was embarrassed by my own foolishness, but he didn’t let me down. I never told anyone except my father what he did for me that day. If my mother had found out, she would have panicked. So it was our little secret.’
‘Which you’ve never forgotten?’
‘How could I?’ Daniel paused. ‘I bet my father never forgot it, either. Barrie saved me from the consequences of my own bravado. More than that, he saved my life.’
An hour later, they headed out to The Moon under Water for an evening meal. The original building was a couple of hundred years old and had been much extended. It boasted beamed ceilings, uneven floors and decor with a Hitchcock movie poster theme. Miranda amused herself by picking a table where Daniel had to sit beneath a picture of James Stewart from The Man Who Knew Too Much.
‘So is it the way you remember?’ she asked as they studied the menu chalked up over the counter.
‘It’s doesn’t seem as busy and the air’s not as thick with smoke. Maybe it’s less of a pub, more of a restaurant than it used to be. The bar was always packed to the rafters with locals and fell-walkers. Louise and I were kept awake every night by the drinkers downstairs in the bar. She complained endlessly about the raucous laughter and the stink of beer. But I liked the twisting staircases and tucked-away alcoves. We whiled away time by telling each other the legends of Lakeland.’
He ordered their food from a young woman whose carelessly buttoned cheesecloth shirt revealed more than it concealed, then moved along the counter to buy the drinks. The landlord had a perma-tan and highlights, along with a receding hairline and a designer shirt that had been the height of fashion a few years back. His pinched, quizzical face reminded Daniel of a fox, but of a fox with an especially high opinion of himself. As he pulled a pint, he introduced himself as Joe Dowling. When he learned that Daniel and Miranda were the new owners of Tarn Cottage, his eyebrows wiggled.
‘So you’re the television star, then?’
‘Never a star, I’m afraid. Anyway, I’ve given all that up.’
Dowling stashed his money in the till and said, ‘So what brought you to Brackdale? Most people drive straight past on their way to the Lakes. They don’t even know the valley exists. Thank God for that, I say, even though a bit more passing trade would put a smile on my bank manager’s face.’
‘I stayed here on holiday as a boy. We had a room in this pub, matter of fact.’
‘You’re kidding! In the days of old Dick Hubbard?’
‘My sister and I used to call his wife Old Mother Hubbard. Predictable to a fault. I didn’t expect they’d still be around. They both looked about one hundred even then.’
‘Dick passed on seven years back, and Millie followed soon after.’
‘I see you still advertise bed and breakfast.’
‘You wouldn’t recognise the rooms if you haven’t been here for twenty years. En-suite, tea and coffee making facilities, Corby trouser press, you name it. I know three star hotels in Windermere with less to offer. The wife and I built on at the back as well as refurbishing. Ex-wife, I should say. Glenda and I split up a while ago.’ The landlord cast a proprietorial glance at the milky white cleavage of the young woman taking food orders. As if trying to recapture his youth, he pulled his stomach in. ‘Lynsey and I are tying the knot in the summer.’
‘So that’s what you call it?’ said a man standing next to Daniel. ‘Now if you’ve finished bragging about your love life, mine’s a pint of Best.’
‘You’ll have to excuse my friend,’ the landlord said. ‘Very uncouth, but I suppose if you’ve settled in the valley, I’d better introduce you. This is Tom Allardyce. Tom, meet Daniel Kind. He and his other half have just bought the cottage up in Tarn Fold.’
Allardyce nodded, but his expression was as welcoming as a shower of sleet. His brown hair was cropped to the scalp, his complexion weathered by years out of doors. His hands were callused, the nails short and dirty. The sleeves of his ancient Black Sabbath T-shirt were rolled up to the elbows. On each hairy forearm, dragons breathed fire.
‘I’ve heard your name.’
‘News travels fast round here,’ Daniel said. ‘You live in the valley too?’
‘I’m the tenant of Brack Hall Farm. Mr Dumelow may be a property tycoon, but I look after his own land.’
‘If you ask me,’ Joe Dowling said, ‘the man’s more interested in the tax losses. Tom’s family has looked after that farm for generations, Mr Kind. He’s forgotten more about farming than Simon Dumelow will ever learn.’