The Ullswater Undertaking Rebecca Tope (good books to read for young adults .TXT) 📖

even if there was, don’t they say that a dead person’s private business always comes spilling out? Papers come to the surface, connections get made at the funeral, the bank discloses confidential details.’

Simmy was easily diverted. ‘Did Josephine go to Hilda’s funeral, I wonder?’

‘I have no idea.’ His grown-up calm began to crack slightly. ‘But I’m sure young Mr Harkness could find out.’

Robin, perhaps detecting an incipient atmosphere, began to make his presence felt more loudly. Simmy took him from his father and carried him downstairs to the kitchen. ‘Just sit there while I have breakfast,’ she told him, strapping him into his little chair. ‘You can watch me,’ she added generously.

Nothing had been definitely decided concerning the day’s movements. Simmy felt guilty at having compared Christopher to Ben, and to make amends she directed their attention back to the matter of getting married. ‘Can we even call it a wedding?’ she wondered. ‘If it’s just a register office and a pub?’

‘Technically, yes, I suppose so. And whatever we say, my sisters will turn it all into a big event. Nobody in the family has got married for ages.’

‘We should have done it before now,’ she worried, thinking perhaps it was her fault they hadn’t. ‘Why didn’t we?’

‘We were too busy. And it was winter. And things kept happening.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘And they still do. So we’re not going to Workington to look for Uncle Richmond, then?’

‘I already said, I can’t see any sense in doing that. I can just give Fabian the address and leave it to him. I’ve had enough of his whining about having no money, or car, or anywhere to live. Even if it is my fault, he’s had time to get his life back on track by now, hasn’t he?’

‘Stop! We’re talking about getting married, remember.’

And they did. They speculated about the chances of a little honeymoon, and whether they should veto any suggestion of presents. They told cautionary stories about weddings they had seen and hated. They worried about how Angie might behave and whether Bonnie would go overboard with the flowers.

‘It’s really going to happen, then?’ Simmy smiled, meeting his gaze. ‘I’ll really be Mrs Henderson.’

‘Not necessarily – you could revert to Straw. But I’d quite like you not to be Brown any more.’

‘If I’m married to you, I want to have your name. It might be old-fashioned, but to me that seems axiomatic.’

‘As Ben would say,’ he supplied with a grin.

‘As Ben would say,’ she agreed.

Still no decision had been made as to what to do with the day, and Christopher was becoming restless by coffee time, clearly worrying that he was wasting time. He was moving around the kitchen, collecting plates and dumping them in the sink. Simmy watched him, thinking he was changing into a different man in ways she found entirely satisfactory. There was something deeply relaxed about him, despite his present behaviour, as if contentment had filled him to his very bones. None of the usual stress of new parenthood appeared to be afflicting him. The balance between home and work felt manageable and secure. He paid attention to her and the baby, and was still eager for them to get married. He even co-operated in talk about mysterious murders, although that made him anxious. As far as Simmy could tell, the anxiety was mostly superficial and nothing to do with the essential facts of her and Robin and the new house.

He spent a few more minutes playing with the baby, then wandered around the outside space that was destined eventually to become a garden, moving stones about and pulling up a few plants that he believed to be weeds and marking out the increasingly postponed potato patch. When Simmy inspected his work, she protested at what he’d done. ‘Those are foxgloves,’ she cried. ‘Why did you pull them up?’

‘They’re weeds, surely? Everything here’s a weed – by definition. Nobody’s ever tried to turn this patch into a garden. Besides, haven’t I heard somewhere that foxgloves are poisonous?’

‘Not according to my father. He insists that hardly any wild plants are poisonous. Or not enough to worry about, anyway.’ She was kneeling at the foot of the stone wall that marked their boundary, trying to replant one of the ill-used foxgloves with her bare hands. ‘You’ve torn off most of the roots. It can’t possibly survive.’

‘I’m sure there are lots of things you have to avoid when you’ve got a small child,’ he persisted. ‘Deadly nightshade. Hemlock. Aconite. I mean, Sim, it’s only a few months since that bloke was killed with a poisonous plant.’

‘Which no child would be fool enough to eat,’ she snapped. ‘They’ve got instincts to protect them.’

‘Hm,’ was all he said to that. Then he looked up. ‘Why don’t we all go up to Keswick? It’s a lovely day for a drive, and I could go and find Oliver and see what he thinks we ought to do tomorrow. Pub lunch by one of the lakes, and home for tea.’

‘Okay,’ she said slowly. ‘But can’t you just phone Oliver? What are Robin and I supposed to do while you chat to him?’

‘Shopping?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s too awkward with the buggy and everything.’

‘Right.’

‘Oh, Chris – I don’t want to be a drag. A day out would be lovely. I’m happy just to sit somewhere sunny and watch the world go by. You can park me and Robin by the river somewhere and go off to talk to Oliver. Just don’t take too long over it.’

‘Better idea,’ he announced. ‘We all go to lunch somewhere together. He’d be fine with that. He’s always saying he’d like to get to know you better, and he’s sure to want to see Robin.’

‘Really?’ Oliver was a bachelor in his late sixties, plumply debonair in his dress and universally affable in a detached sort of way. ‘Has he ever actually met a baby?’

Christopher just laughed.

It was all readily arranged, and soon after eleven the little family set off northwards to