Devoke Water

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.

"What can I do for you Mrs Clifford?"

She'd always disliked the manager, who was more cringing than polite.

"Oh, this young man was most helpful last time I had a problem. I'm sure he'll do a good job again."

"This is Roger." said the manager, reluctantly.

She joined Roger at his workbench.

"Before we start, can I get you a coffee Mrs Clifford?"

"Please call me Susan. Yes, I'd love one."

"OK, Susan. Milk and sugar?"

"Just a little milk please."

It was sure to be instant, and she no longer drank the stuff, but she liked Roger, and a coffee would spin out this visit.

She put her computer on the workbench. The surface was a bit grubby so she pulled up another chair to put her handbag on. It was a Fendi and more expensive than the laptop. As she stood, she collided with Roger, forgetting just how quick a cup of instant could be. She yelped as hot Nescafe drenched her Coco Chanel T-shirt. She had left home braless and Roger, unable to take his eyes off her breasts anyway, goggled now they were soaked. She pinched the shirt and pulled it away from herself.

"Fuck! I'm so sorry!" he said.

Then he clamped his hand over his mouth.

"Sorry!"

"Idiot!" shouted the manager.

Susan regained her composure.

"It's all right, my fault entirely." She turned to Roger. "Could you show me to your bathroom?"

Roger led her to the the back of the shop.

"Can I get you anything?"

"Another shirt please."

Susan stripped hers off and soaked it under the tap. Then used it to wash the sticky coffee stains off her chest. The cold water made her nipples stand up. The door opened and Roger reappeared. He passed her a shirt, and stared at her topless state in the mirror. She turned and faced him full on.

"Seems you've come quicker than I expected again!"

She was proud of that line, and smiled as his face went even redder. He muttered another 'sorry' and, to his credit, looked her in the eye. Then backed out, leaving her holding a large grey T-shirt, with the company's logo.

Back at his workbench, he still looked embarrassed.

"Your phone rang while you were changing." he said.

Susan looked. It was only Greg, probably checking up on her. She ignored it.

"Er, would you like another coffee?"

"Do you get a lunch break Roger?"

"Yes, in about half an hour."

"What's the manager's name?"

"Mr Brougham."

"Mr Brougham? I need to get my shirt dry cleaned. Will it be all right if Roger comes with me, and we have a coffee in Costa? I'll explain my computer problems and then go home. He can call me when it's repaired."

"Certainly Mrs Clifford."

Once she'd described the problems, the seduction went up a notch. The dry cleaners wasn't the most romantic setting, but it would do.

"Will you be working tomorrow, Roger?"

"No, I have this Saturday off."

"Doing anything special?"

"Not really... Susan."

"How about this then? I have a couple of errands to run in town now, then I'll go home and call your Mr Brougham. I'll tell him that you've been a real gentleman, and I want you to be the one who fixes my laptop."

"Great!"

"When you've finished, take it home with you. Then, tomorrow, come in here and pick up my shirt. Bring it, and my laptop, to the house and your debt will be paid."

He didn't really owe her anything, but it made her position more powerful if he thought he did. She paid the cleaner and passed Roger the receipt.

"No problem."

"Good. My husband will leave to play golf before nine, so drop it by after nine fifteen?"

"Sure."

"My address will be in your files, but I'll give you my mobile number just in case. When you come, we can test the laptop in situ."

In Costa, Susan leaned back and stretched the shirt tight, studying the logo upside down. Her nipples stood up.

"Netfix." she ased. "Do you like working there?"

"They're ok for now, but I'm better than them."

"In what way?"

Now in familiar territory, he sounded more confident.

"They're just work experience. I'm saving up to start my own business. Same sort of thing as Netfix, but more upmarket. And I make things; not just repair them."

Roger was describing one of his gadgets when something he said caught her attention.

"I just call it a gizmo at the moment, and it looks crude."

"What does it do again?"

"You go into a room, press the button, and point it round in a circle. It beeps and shows a red light if there's anything electrical working. And the beeping gets faster, the closer you get to it. You can tell if there's any bugs. You know, spy bugs, not insects."

"I think I've seen something like that in a film."

"Yeah, but mine is better. It even gives a signal if a device is turned off, but you get a yellow light instead."

"Listen. Could you bring it round tomorrow? Show me your gizmo, and perhaps I'll show you mine!"

"OK."

Either he didn't get the innuendo, or his blushing was under control now. She looked down at the swell of her breasts.

"Well you've seen them now. What did you think?"

"I... "

He was going red again. She wondered how far she could push him. What might he be prepared to do for more of this? Or for money to kickstart his business?

"You're very pretty!" he blurted out.

"Well thank you! Though I'm sure a handsome young man like yourself has girlfriends who are prettier."

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"You must have seen your fair share of breasts though."

"No, well not as beautiful as yours!"

"What a lovely thing to say! Do a good job on my laptop and I might show them to you again!"

At the fertility clinic, Susan presented herself at reception.

"Oh, have you come to fix our computer?"

"No, I borrowed this shirt. I'm Mrs Clifford, and I've come to collect my test results."

"Mrs Clifford, of course. We spoke on the phone!"

Back at the house, Mrs Friar arrived and let herself in. Susan wished she would knock. It was fine, the cook having a key, but it was rude to just walk in. She'd mentioned it to Greg before, but he didn't think it was an issue.

"I hear you've got a problem with steaming crabs love. Where are they?"

"In here." replied Susan, opening the fridge.

"Oh dear, this is not a good start. You should have kept them in a bucket of water!"

To be fair she did an excellent job, and soon Susan was admiring a delicious looking crab salad.

"This looks nice. Greg will be home any minute. I'll wait for him."

"No, he won't love. He's lunching at the golf club. He asked me to put the salads in fridge for tonight. Said you'd probably make do with the last of some shepherd's pie."

Luckily, Mrs Friar breezed out before Susan could reply. She was furious. 'Make do?' Arrogant bastard!

"So, he telephones the cook with his lunch plans, but not me!" she vented out loud. "And organises tonight's meals!"

She ate the last of her shepherd's pie cold. Then rang Dee and poured her heart out, though not mentioning murder. Finally, she rang Roger.

"What are you doing tonight?

... Would you mind if an older woman joined you?

... No, you should still come round tomorrow."

When Greg got in, she was still fuming.

"How dare you tell Mrs Friar our eating arrangements, but not tell me!"

"What? I was only trying to help. I called your mobile, but you didn't answer."

Susan ignored that.

"I felt such an idiot, waiting for you to come and have lunch with me. While that stupid woman, who knew you were at the club, just sneered at me!"

"I'm sure she didn't."

"You weren't here; you're never here!"

"That's not fair."

She stomped upstairs and left Greg sitting looking at his salad. When she returned he was still there.

"Where are you going?"

"Out with a friend."

"Dressed like that?"

Susan looked at herself. OK, this skirt was her shortest, and the heels were her highest. And the lilac blouse was rather transparent, highlighting her braless state.

"What's wrong with how I'm dressed? They're only clothes; I've worn them before."

"Not without me you haven't."

"So, now you have to inspect my clothes before I'm allowed out? Want me to lift my skirt, so you can check if I'm wearing knickers? Maybe I'm naked under here!"

"Don't be so crude. And don't be so dramatic. You can wear what you like. It was only an observation."

He stared at her breasts. Not the first man to do that today.

"It's cold out Susan. You'll freeze."

"I've got my coat."

"Where are you going?"

"And why should I tell you? You don't tell me where you are all day."

"Very well. Who with?"

"Dee."

A car horn sounded in the street.

"That'll be my taxi."

"Something wrong with your car?"

"No, but we'll probably have a few drinks."

"But I've never played pool before."

"It's OK." said Roger. "I'll teach you."

"Why is it so quiet in here? The main bar is packed."

"This pub has a pool team in the league, but the fixtures got messed up. They usually play mid-week, but they have an away match tonight."

"Ah."

Greg scraped the last of his salad into the bin. He'd told Mrs Friar countless times he didn't like tomatoes, but she never remembered. Or perhaps she did remember, and just didn't agree. This was not a good day. Susan had been out of sorts lately, but he didn't know why. He thought about her challenge to check under that skirt. Had that been a bluff? Surely she hadn't gone out without any panties?

"With your left hand, you spread your fingers like this, forming a stable bridge."

Roger held her wrist.

"Like this?"

"Yes. And your right hand holds the thick end of the cue; firmly."

His right hand cupped hers.

"You're sure that's the cue I'm holding?"

He breathed in her ear, and she suspected that was an erection touching her skirt. Her nipples were making their presence felt yet again.

Greg wandered round the bedroom, not really knowing what he was looking for. In the en suite, he fished a cellophane wrapper out of the bin. Crotchless tights. His wife had gone out braless, wearing crotchless tights.

Next, against his better judgement, he looked in the laundry hamper, where he spotted the grey Netfix T-shirt. He pulled it out and sniffed it; it smelled like Susan. Elvis was sitting on the cistern, watching him.