The Ullswater Undertaking

a message: Caller withheld their number. Christopher slammed the phone down and snarled, ‘Now there’s a surprise.’
Robin interrupted at that point with a demand for attention and some food if possible, please. Christopher forgot the phone and applied himself to ten minutes of playtime. ‘A whole day tomorrow for more bonding,’ he rejoiced.
‘We’re not going to Hannah’s then?’ asked Simmy.
‘Nope. That can wait till next weekend. I told her already, it’s too soon. We’re not ready to take him out into the world yet.’
‘I’ve taken him to the pub at least three times. He’ll be three weeks old on Tuesday.’
‘My sisters both saw him when you brought him home. They can wait another week. I want him all to myself.’
‘You should have put in for paternity leave. It’s your legal right.’
‘Don’t start that again.’ They had debated and argued the point endlessly, in Robin’s first few days. Simmy had taken so readily to breastfeeding; the baby was so placid and accommodating; Angie and Russell were so attentive; the auction house was so unusually busy – it all made Christopher feel he would be more use as a father in a few more months’ time. The rules allowed for him to have two weeks paid leave at any point during the coming year, and it seemed to him sensible to postpone it.
‘You’re right. Sorry.’ Simmy’s compliance was genuine. Her days at home with the baby were far less stressful, far more delightful than she had anticipated, partly thanks to the presence of Humphrey the builder and his young workmate. With her habitual tendency to take nothing for granted, she assured Christopher that there would be times when his participation would be indispensable. ‘You can have him all day long when he’s teething.’
‘And all day Sunday, remember. Every Sunday for the rest of my life.’
She laughed and took the baby from him for a feed. Having prepared herself for a total lack of routine, giving feeds whenever the child showed interest, snatching naps when Robin slept and abandoning any thought of housework, the reality was utterly different. The newborn evidently had an active internal clock set to three-hourly intervals. At night this stretched to four blissful hours. He enjoyed his wakeful periods, watching flickering light with as much fascination as he watched his mother’s face. ‘He must be brain damaged,’ said Angie carelessly. ‘No normal baby is as good as this.’
‘He’s just naturally pleased to be alive,’ said Simmy defensively. ‘The health visitor says he’s completely healthy.’
The evening was approaching its early end. Simmy and Christopher often went to bed at nine-thirty, sleeping until Robin called out at midnight. Chris might then go and make a milky drink for them both, which generally ensured that they slept deeply until the 4 a.m. summons. ‘Something’s supposed to change when he gets to three weeks,’ Simmy warned. ‘A growth spurt, apparently.’
Christopher shrugged unconcernedly. ‘Sufficient unto the day,’ he said.
But there was an unfinished conversation hanging over them on this Saturday evening. ‘What if that Crick man turns up when you’re at work?’ she worried. ‘What does he look like? What do you think he wants from you?’
‘He must be late fifties by now, maybe a bit more. I can’t really remember what he looked like. Middle height, thin, quite colourless.’
‘What work did he do? Wasn’t it unusual for a man his age to be doing such a long overland trip?’
‘No idea what work he did. He was a bit of a misfit, I guess. There’s generally a wife as well – kids just gone off and the parents awarding themselves an adventure. But there are always exceptions. The group had people of all ages. The youngest was a girl of nineteen, and there was a couple in their seventies. And a man and his daughter, I remember. And a gay couple from Belgium. Gosh – I haven’t given any of them a thought for years.’
Another detail had snagged Simmy’s attention. ‘You never told me you did antique dealing as long ago as that.’
‘They weren’t antiques. Just local crafts. It was lucky chance initially. I was in Lisbon and came across a sort of emporium selling ethnic stuff. I had a few bits and pieces from Tunisia in my rucksack and popped in to see if there was any interest. The bloke almost bit my hand off. Apparently he’d had trouble getting in and out of North Africa, and suggested I do a few trips on his behalf. I stuck to very small items that fitted into my bag or could be sent through the mail without too much hassle. The customs procedures weren’t very efficient, so I always managed to get through. Technically, there was probably duty to pay.’ He was rambling sleepily, reminiscing without much of a logical thread.
‘Anything else I should know?’ Simmy persisted.
‘Oh – I’ve no idea. The more I try to remember, the less I can dredge up about him. It was all pretty scary and overwrought, with him being so sick. He was practically delirious at times. It was embarrassing for the tour operator, and highly complicated getting him to hospital. He should never have been taken into the Okavanga in the first place. There were arguments about it. All I can remember now is that some female relative living in Cumbria was expecting him to show up for something important. And he asked me to go instead of him and I said I would.’
‘So you made a note of her name and address, right? It was something you both assumed was within your capabilities.’
‘Not that, exactly. More that I was planning to come back here to catch up with the family, and he made the connection, geographically speaking. It must have seemed too neat to ignore. Haven’t I said all this already?’
‘But you promised him.’
‘I did. I admit that I did say I’d do it. Whatever it was. It seems like a tremendously long time ago now.’
‘Ten years isn’t so long, really. He obviously hasn’t forgotten.’
‘Right. And some