He wouldn’t come! Lol, that’s priceless! No, he won’t even come to reunions, though that’s hardly unusual. I think we’ve maybe seen two or three of the old staff since it closed. He’s a bit bitter, I think, though he’s got himself a very nice house out of it and he didn’t do badly when the Trust wound up, or so I heard. He’s geriatric now anyway. Last I saw him was at a memorial service at St Olaf’s. They have one every once in a while for those lost on the mountain. He was there for Rideal, I suppose. Didn’t look well but he was civil enough.
Rowan plays it safe with his reply.
You don’t sound like you were a fan …
She’s back on in moments.
He didn’t have much to do with the school. Good at speeches and even better with the finances apparently but not somebody you’d think of as a neat fit in a school that pushed alternative, independent thinking. He was much more of a suit, though I guess the world needs a few of those to function. And to be fair, when Sixpence went missing and there were fears for his safety, it was Rideal who gave the assembly and told us he had no doubts the old boy was having the time of his life somewhere. Same when there was the other incident in ’91. He was good at stepping up when the outside world came sniffing. Even so, we weren’t exactly blubbing when we heard what had happened on the mountain in 2004. I mean, what was the silly sod even doing up there? He’d had bronchial problems going back years. That was what made him so creepy to us girls, I suppose – this snorting, horrible breathing noise, like a pig with its nose in the trough. Sorry, I don’t suppose this is any use to you, is it? I do rattle on!
Rowan looks up, as he hears the girl mutter the correct answer to the Bond conundrum, slightly louder than the previous four times she has tried to get a word in.
“Bollocks, no its not. The bloke from Flash Gordon? He never played Bond.”
“He did …,”
“It’s Timothy Dalton, you wanker,” grumbles Rowan, trying to concentrate on a reply. He realises he’s said it loudly enough for heads to turn.
“That’s better,” laughs Vicky, stumbling back from the ladies toilets, trying to straighten her tabard and tuck herself in without spilling the last of her pint. The beer, she insists, is for sustenance and nourishment. It’s the trio of double vodka-tonics that are the indulgence. Rowan isn’t sure she’ll make it to Ravenglass or whether she will be in any fit state to wield a vacuum when she gets there.
“I’m sorry about that lot,” mutters Rowan, gesturing at the table and putting his phone away. He shoots a glance at the barman. He’s probably younger than the woman. Perhaps 20, no more. A tight T-shirt, grimy glasses and a body that’s all joints and gristle. Rowan feels a swell of pity for the lad. The two boorish dickheads are twice his size. The nearest has a roll of fat at his neck like a pug. He’s wearing a Fred Perry tracksuit top with shiny blue jeans and white trainers. He’s around Rowan’s age, and still sports a hairstyle made famous by the footballer Lee Sharpe around 1992: short hair gelled forward and snipped in a perfectly straight line at the fringe. His mate is wearing a checked shirt beneath a short bomber jacket – chunky gold chains around his neck.
“Which lot?” asks Vicky, looking around. “Oh, you mean Daz Shipley?” She looks back to Rowan. “Fancies himself a bit. I would say he’s harmless, but he’s not. That’s Robin with him. He went to school with my first boyfriend. Ploughed his dad’s Peugeot into Santon Bridge when he was 15. He escaped unhurt but thankfully his dad had the presence of mind to break his jaw. He’s talked a bit funny since. If you do end up writing a book about this place, don’t waste a page on those arseholes.”
Rowan is enjoying Vicky. He’s learned more than he needs to. She’s from Carlisle originally, which makes her positively cosmopolitan in these parts. She lives in a three bedroomed terraced house near the seafront in Seascale with four children and a lodger: a reclusive Polish man who works in one of the posher Lakeland hotels. She’s been married twice, she has an older sister called Beth, and she cleans for seven different private clients in the West Cumbria area. She worked as a care assistant at a retirement home for a few years but was placed on a zero-hours contract a while back that couldn’t guarantee her the hours she needed. For all that he is now well-versed in her life, Rowan is beginning to wonder whether there is anything further to be gained from the exchange. He’s bought all the drinks so far and he hasn’t got the energy to sleep with her. He’s considering making a show of draining the last of his pint. Wonders if it would be rude to leave her a tenner for a cab and to wish her well with whatever comes next in life. He’d quite like to smash Shipley’s head trough the fruit machine as he goes. Wonders if this pain to his hands will be worth the satisfaction of punching at least one of them in the face.
“It’s a shame you never met her partner,” says Vicky, unexpectedly. She’d been gazing at a picture of a racehorse on the wall behind them and it takes Rowan a second to work out that she isn’t referring to the animal.
“Eve, you mean? Ms Cater?”
Vicky turns back to the barman and signals for two more drinks. Ruefully, Rowan realises he’s not going anywhere yet. He watches as Vicky retrieves her phone from the pocket of her tabard and sends a quick message. She spins the screen. “They’re my boys,” she mutters. “Tyler’s got my eyes, don’t you think? My dimples are cuter though.”
Rowan nods, encouragingly. “Who was her partner?” he asks, steering her back on course. “And you mean romantic partner, yes? Not that they owned a business together.”
“Romantic in a way,” shrugs Vicky, as the drinks appear on the edge of the bar. She looks at the barman, expecting him to bring them over. He looks away, pretending not to see her. She stands up, noisily, and returns a moment later with a double vodka for herself and a pint of the local ale for Rowan. He’d swap it for a glass of even the cheapest whisky if given the chance.
“In a way?” smiles Rowan, taking a sip.
Vicky makes a show of narrowing one eye at him. “Don’t think you’ve got me fooled,” she says, mischievously. “I’m not buying this ‘little-boy-lost’ act of yours. I know what you’re doing.”
Rowan takes a longer swallow, buying time. Decides to just take whatever’s coming. “And what am I doing?”
“You’re writing about what happened,” she says, pulling her chair closer to the table. “Violet and Catherine and the other girl.”
“Freya,” says Rowan, meeting her eyes. “Freya Sheehan. Do you know the name?”
Vicky shakes her head. Sips her drink. “I don’t know the vicar’s daughter very well but Violet’s been a visitor at Eve’s place for as long as I’ve been cleaning for her.”
“And how long’s that?”
“Five or six years, I reckon,” she says, chewing her cheek. “I looked after Derrick first and then Eve needed a bit of help with a few bits at home so I stayed in touch.”
Rowan licks his lips. He glances at the two men who sit at the table by the bar. Shipley has turned away from the girl and is staring at Rowan. His cheeks are flushed and he seems to be sucking spit through his teeth; a whale feasting on krill. “Tell me about Derrick,” he says, giving Vicky his full attention. “You looked after him?”
“When I was a care worker,” she says, rubbing her finger around the top of her glass. “Lovely place not far from Kendal. It wasn’t cheap but you get what you pay for. Like I say, if they’d given me a proper contract I’d still be there.”