Contents: British English spelling and grammar. Cheating wife. Murder plot. Revenge. Cute teddy bear.
This is one of my longer stories at 9.3k. Descriptions of the lake are correct, except for the main character's cabin. That is fiction, as is the rest of it.
*** *** ***
Devoke Water
"Don't forget Elvis!" Greg said, joking.
"I never forget Elvis." replied Susan, slightly irritated. "I may take him with me all over the house, but when I go to bed, he's always in position. He watches over me."
She was too old to take him to bed these days, so put him in his usual place, facing the bed. The rest of the shelves and cubbyholes had framed photos and mementos. But no other teddies. In fact, on that wall, Elvis was the only thing that was truly hers.
Susan had had him since childhood, and refused to be parted from him. When she was seven, and he'd started falling to bits, she made him a white suit. It had a high collar, flared trousers, and tiny sequins. She wasn't skilled enough to make clothes that would fit, so they were stitched into his body; better because they kept him in one piece. Previously Edward, he was renamed the day the outfit was finished.
Elvis watched them get into bed.
"Next time we go to the cabin, I'll repair that jetty; it's getting wobbly." said Greg.
"You said that last time." she replied.
"I know, but I forgot my tools last time."
"Do you mind going on your own?"
"I thought you liked staying at the cabin."
"I'm getting a bit tired of it to be honest. Sorry"
***
The cabin had been left to Greg by his grandfather, as had their Southport house. Granddad had been a moderately successful author of novels set in the Lake District. He'd built the cabin with the royalties of his first book. Then, once he'd completed manuscripts of subsequent novels, he retreated to the cabin for the final editing. Said he liked the peace and quiet.
It was located on the south shore of Devoke Water which, at a mile long, was the largest of Cumbria's high tarns. Isolated, the cabin had mains water, but electricity was courtesy of a petrol generator, and heating was a wood-burning stove. It also had a tiny boathouse, big enough for a rowboat.
The road to Eskdale passed through Birker Fell. South of Eskdale itself, was a pull-off where cars could park. From there, you crossed the road and reached Devoke Water on foot. Greg and Susan enjoyed the solitude when they stayed there. The only other people they saw were the occasional angler or another hiker.
Greg had always had a comfortable lifestyle. Handed down through the family were two small but successful businesses. Wool, and boatbuilding were still thriving in Cumbria. These days he just looked in on them occasionally. More often, he went to London for meetings with the family accountants and solicitors.
***
He and Susan had met at the Royal Birkdale Golf club. Greg had just enjoyed eighteen holes, and Susan was serving behind the bar. He was smitten. There were raised eyebrows at their wedding, and whispers of barmaids not being appropriate for the Clifford family. 'And she's twelve years younger than him you know!' But Greg shrugged it off. By Clifford standards Susan was common, but she was sexy and full of fun. Anyway, the family estate would pass to their children eventually; not to her.
They stayed at the cabin five or six times a year. Susan enjoyed the peace and quiet but could have done without all the walking; the tracks were never dry. And recently the solitude was wearing her down. It was all very well getting back to nature, but a tv would be nice. Jack Dacre, a local, and friend of the family, stopped by occasionally and kept an eye on the place. To help him, Greg had bought him his first mobile phone.
They'd been married nearly three years now, and Susan was bored. She'd never had any money when she was single, yet did seem to have a lot more fun. She'd hoped children would fulfill her, but they'd had no luck so far. Recently they'd been for tests, which revealed Greg had no problems. But Susan had been started on a course of extra hormones. Then one day she'd heard Greg discussing it on the phone with one of the family. The phrase 'sure she's good breeding stock' had stuck in her mind. He was probably defending her in his own way, but he made her sound like a horse.
It preyed on her mind. What would he do if she couldn't conceive? Greg was an only child, the last of his generation to bear the Clifford name. The family would go ballistic if a mere barmaid inherited everything, so children were a necessity. Secretly, she went in for extra tests.
Then, one Thursday, came the fateful call.
"Hello Mrs Clifford, this is Birkdale Fertility Clinic. Are you ok to receive your results over the phone? Or would you prefer an appointment with the specialist?"
"This is fine. Tell me now, please."
"Bad news I'm afraid. We've double-checked your results and I'm sorry to tell you, you are infertile."
"Oh no. Will IVF work?"
"Sorry, but it won't."
"So, it's adoption or nothing."
"I'm afraid so. Shall I mail you the results?"
"No thanks. I'll pick them up next time I'm in town."
This was a serious blow. When children had not come along, she and Greg had discussed various possibilities. And at a time when their problems 'would sort themselves out soon', Greg had stated he was not keen on adoption. Susan was scared he might divorce her now.
He had introduced her to a different world, a world of privilege. But now, Susan wasn't sure she'd ever really loved him. She wasn't cut out to be one of those 'ladies that lunch'. This lifestyle was weighing her down. Yes, she had money, but few friends of her own age. The only mate she was still in touch with was Dee. If Susan couldn't ask her advice now and then, she'd go insane. Greg was a good man, but Susan was in a rut. She didn't want to give up the trappings of wealth, yet didn't really want the husband that came with them. But she would do badly in a divorce. She'd brought nothing to this marriage, except the expectation of children.
Susan was sure he would not be satisfied with adoption; it would dilute the bloodline or something. She realised she'd married him for his money and security. Not a pleasant idea, but true. And if she couldn't produce children to inherit, her position might be untenable. Greg was still young enough to find someone fertile. She had married to escape a life of poverty; now she might be going back there.
The best way out would be if Greg died soon. Then she could inherit, and enjoy being rich on her own terms. Susie had read somewhere there was a fine line between love and hate. So if she did not love Greg, she must learn to hate him. Then she would have no problem killing him. She needed two things. First, more reasons to hate Greg. Second, a plan to get rid of him; probably with an accomplice.
There was a knock at the door. A man in overalls, holding a tray, said: "Delivery for Mr Clifford." The tray, more of a shallow plastic box, held half a dozen twitching crabs.
"Sorry, I need to take the box back madam. Can you fetch a bucket of water?"
Susan did so, and the guy tipped them in. She noticed they had their claws secured with elastic bands.
"Stops them attacking each other." he said, as if reading her mind, "You can keep the elastic bands!"
"How long will they last like this?"
"Couple of days. Longer if you have a zero degrees section in your fridge."
She took the bucket to the kitchen. This was typical of Greg; arranging things without consulting her. She had a vague idea crabs should be steamed, but didn't know where to start. A wave of rebellion crashed in. Fuck it, they could eat them tomorrow. She hadn't had shepherd's pie in years, and was going to make one tonight. It was about time they ate something of her choosing.
"Mmm, this nice, Susan." he said. "Did you make it?"
"Of course."
"Did the fresh crabs arrive?"
"Yes."
"Where are they?"
"I flushed them down the toilet!"
His face was a picture. Did he really imagine she could do such a thing?
"Joking! They're in the kitchen in a bucket of water. Might be a good idea if you take charge of steaming them. Or get the cook in."
"Sure. When we've finished this, I'll put them in the zero degrees compartment of the refrigerator. By the way, you know the last part of making shepherd's pie, where you finish it off in the oven?"
"Yes."
"Well, if we ever have it again, why not try a layer of grated cheese on top?"
Susan could feel herself getting angrier. Shepherd's pie might only be common fare for the likes of him, but she knew how to cook it. And it didn't need bloody cheese on top! And it didn't escape her notice that Greg had said 'if we ever have it again'. She grabbed Elvis from the kitchen worktop and, returning him to his cubbyhole, had an early night. When Greg came to bed, she rejected his advances.
"Wrong time of the month to make babies. Better save it."
OK, the hating him part was taking shape; well, disliking him anyway. But likely candidates for accomplice to murder were not common in the circles they moved in, as far as she knew. Who might there be, down her end of the social scale, who might be persuaded? Seduced even?
"While you're out," she said next morning, "I'll pop into town and get my laptop repaired. It's playing up again."
"Go to Netfix. They do a good a job."
"I will."
(No 'Why don't you try...' Just 'Go')
Susan had already decided to use them anyway. She thought one of their staff was dishy. If there was such a thing as a nerd with muscles; he was it. She climbed into her Mercedes SL500 roadster.
Once in town, Netfix was her first call.
