of his own to take his affection away from his mother. From all I’ve ever heard, he was a wilful man, unpleasant even, judging by how disinclined the locals are to speak of him – those that remember him, that is. You must have noticed that Aunt Trudie never mentions him, and you just try talking about him to Rokeby and watch him clam up.’
‘So he remains our mysterious Uncle Jack,’ said Alix, giving a violent yawn and laying down her cue. ‘Lord, how tired I am. Off to bed, I think; I’ll leave you to turn the lights out.’ She gave her brother an affectionate kiss on his lean cheek.
‘Sleep tight, Lexy. And welcome home.’
The Great North Road
By arriving early at his office, and working without a break for lunch, Michael wrapped up the last details of the Pegasus designs by mid-afternoon. He wished a Merry Christmas to his colleagues and to Giles Gibson, cycled back to his digs in time to collect his gear and suitcase and caught the four thirty-five train to Waterloo. He took a taxi from the station to Freddie’s flat off Marylebone High Street.
‘Just in time for dinner,’ announced his friend, stacking his cases beside his own suitcases which were already packed and waiting, together with a pile of books, in his small hallway. ‘I thought of getting tickets for a show, but I didn’t, just in case some demanding calculations made you miss your train.’
‘Waste of money buying a seat for me, the way I feel,’ Michael said, smothering a yawn. ‘I’d sleep through any performance. Where shall we dine?’
They walked to Soho, and enjoyed a leisurely Italian meal at Bertorelli’s. ‘Up early tomorrow, old thing,’ Freddie said when they got back to his flat. ‘Long drive ahead of us, and I don’t suppose the roads will be any too good when we get further north.’
So Michael was ruthlessly woken from a deep sleep at seven the next morning and sat down to a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs cooked by Freddie’s man, who came in on a daily basis.
‘Do stop looking at your watch,’ Michael complained, as Freddie checked the time yet again and refused to let him start on another piece of toast.
‘We’ve got to get on, no point in spoiling the run by getting held up this end in the rush hour.’
Freddie was a car fiend, and his big touring Bentley was his pride and joy. Since he loathed driving in a closed car, they had the roof down, and, togged up in leather jackets and helmets, with scarves around their necks, gauntlets on their hands and stout goggles over their eyes, they drove through the heavy London traffic, heading for Potter’s Bar and the Great North Road.
Despite the layers of protective clothing, they were chilled enough to be glad of a stop for coffee at Baldock. Michael had the big Thermos refilled and they were soon back in the car and on their way to Grantham.
‘I dislike Lincolnshire,’ said Freddie. ‘I never drive through this landscape without wanting to be among the northern crags.’
‘I don’t much like the Fens myself,’ he agreed. ‘Never mind, we’ll soon be in sight of hills, and tomorrow we’ll be on the ice, or at least out tobogganing.’
‘It’s sixteen years since the lake froze completely, they say. I can’t wait to see what it’s like, and to be out there on my skates. I go to the rink in London, but there’s nothing to touch skating out of doors.’
‘I was there sixteen years ago.’
‘What, in Westmoreland? That winter, when it last froze?’
‘That winter.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Twelve. It wasn’t much of a holiday for any of us, for I caught a chill and got pneumonia. We never went back to the lakes after that. My mother didn’t fancy going north again.’
‘So it’s sixteen years since you’ve been there. No wonder you didn’t sound too keen when I rang and put the plan to you. Understandable, if you had a bad time there when you were a boy.’
‘If I didn’t jump at your offer straight away, it was because of worries about leaving my work, that’s all. I’m glad my chief almost threw me out; I intend to spend all the hours of daylight on the ice or on the snow. I’ve been caged up in the office for too long, and I need to get fit.’
The last miles of the journey were slow and tedious, with an icy surface on the dark country roads and the great headlamps lighting up the icy filigree of the roadside hedges, making eerie patterns out of branches and tree trunks. They were more than glad to reach the inn, where a solicitous Mrs Dixon showed them to low-beamed bedrooms with creaking wooden floors and panelled walls hung with faded prints and framed maps and assorted copper items. Fires flickered in the grates, and downstairs, while they waited for dinner to be served, a huge log fire burned in the wide, centuries-old stone fireplace.
The inn was full, and all the conversation was about the lake. ‘Holding splendidly,’ said a middle-aged man with a bushy moustache. ‘Brought your skates, have you?’
‘We certainly have,’ replied Freddie. ‘Out on the ice first thing, just the ticket, isn’t it, Michael?’
Michael was more than half asleep in the warmth of the fire, but he nodded in agreement.
‘Didn’t I read that they had bonfires on the ice last time it froze?’ Freddie said.
‘No good asking me,’ he said with a yawn. ‘I don’t remember much about that winter.’
‘They did indeed,’ the innkeeper said, coming in to summon his guests to dinner. ‘Braziers to roast chestnuts on and warm your hands, and a huge bonfire as well. There were some who skated holding great flaming torches, oh, that was a sight to see.’
‘Sounds rather like the Inquisition on Ice,’ murmured Freddie, as they went in to their soup.
They found themselves sitting at the same table as the man with the moustache, and two young women. He was a solicitor from Manchester, he told them. The young women smiled, and said they were teachers, PT teachers. One of them ventured that she loved winter sports, didn’t he agree the frozen lake was topping?
Nice, ordinary people, thought Michael, as he drank his soup and let his gaze drift around the small dining room. A family sat at the next table, father, mother and two dark-haired sons of about fourteen and sixteen. A fair younger sister was busily making bread pellets and dropping them into her soup, despite her mother’s protestations. An older man, tall and thin, sat at a small table by himself, a monocle in one eye, a book laid beside his plate. Peaceful people, enjoying a respite from work and duties, like himself.
Ordinary people who might soon be plunged into the furnace of war, if what Giles Gibson said were true. Michael wondered if the prospect of war was the cause of the slight feeling of unease that he couldn’t otherwise explain. More likely it was simple weariness after a long, cold drive.
‘They say there’s a glamorous American woman who’s taken a house here over Christmas and the new year,’ announced the young woman next to him. ‘Practically no one’s seen her, but the woman
