The Drowned Village. Kathleen McGurl

had one this summer, and after all that nastiness, you need to get away.’

      ‘I need to look after you!’ But that ‘nastiness’, as Gran put it, had almost swamped her, she had to admit it.

      ‘The agency can send someone else. I managed perfectly well before you moved in. Don’t get me wrong, Laura, I love having you here, but you need to live your own life as well. You’ve barely been out since you moved here.’

      She was right, but there was no one Laura wanted to go out with. All her friends had been Stuart and Martine’s friends as well, and seeing any of them would mean hearing about how loved-up they were, how they were made for each other and how great it was they were able to be together at last, as if she, Laura, had been purposefully keeping them apart! When she’d lost Stuart she’d lost the whole of her old life. And she had not done much about building herself a new life yet. It was too soon, she kept telling herself, although she knew that sooner or later she’d need to get back out there making friends again. Perhaps in time even meet a new man. Someone who wouldn’t discard her like a used tissue as soon as he’d had enough. But right now she couldn’t even contemplate that happening.

      ‘Respite care, they call it – to give you a break. From me.’

      ‘Aw, Gran, I don’t need a break from you. You’re easy to look after.’ Laura reached across the table to take her grandmother’s hand.

      ‘Oh, I’m not really. Well, I may be easier than some of your clients, as I’ve still got all my marbles, but I’m under no illusions about how difficult your job is. You do it all day, then come home to more of it in the evening with me. So, as I said, I think it is time you had a holiday. And I have an idea of where you might like to go.’

      ‘Really?’ Laura raised her eyebrows in amusement. Stella wasn’t usually this bossy. But it was a thought – a holiday might do her good. Stella was right that she hadn’t been away anywhere since the previous summer, when she and Stuart had spent a long weekend in Barcelona, before travelling along the coast to the beach resort of Lloret de Mar where they’d met up with Martine. For all she knew, Stuart and Martine’s affair had started there. Perhaps a holiday on her own would help her forget them and move on.

      ‘The Lake District,’ Stella said triumphantly. ‘I know how much you love the mountains. You could do a bit of walking. And . . .’

      ‘And?’ Get her head together and her life sorted out?

      ‘Maybe you’d like to visit Brackendale Green,’ Stella said, looking at Laura out of the corner of her eye as if she was unsure what the reaction would be.

      ‘The drowned village where you were born, that was on the news earlier?’

      ‘That’s the one. I mean, I know you’re into family history and all that. So I thought, perhaps now’s the chance to see the place. And maybe it’d help you . . . you know . . . move on. Since all the nastiness it’s as though you’re just treading water, living here with me, not going out at all. At your age there ought to be more in your life. A holiday might help you – what’s that modern computer phrase you young people use? Reboot. Reboot your life. What do you think?’

      ‘I think, eat your dinner before it goes cold, and let me consider it,’ Laura said, smiling. Dear old Gran – always had her best interests at heart. But she was probably right in that it was time for a reboot.

      Stella glared at her, then broke into a broad smile. ‘Yes, you think about it, love. But don’t take too long or it’ll rain and the village will be underwater again.’

      Laura considered Stella’s proposal as she ate. Gran was right – she did love the mountains. And it would be fascinating to see the remains of the village where Gran had been born. If she could get some time off next week, perhaps, and arrange alternative care for Gran, she could pack up a rucksack, dig out her old tent and sleeping bag from pre-Stuart days, and drive up there. If she camped then the whole trip would be pretty cheap. There was a campsite in Patterdale where she’d stayed a few times years ago. Or maybe there’d be another one closer to Bereswater and Brackendale Green. She could look online. As long as there was a pub that did food nearby, she didn’t mind where she stayed. She could do some hiking, think about her future and try to put the mess with Stuart and Martine fully behind her. Just a few months ago she’d thought it was only a matter of time before Stuart proposed. She’d assumed they’d marry and Martine would be her bridesmaid and hen-night organiser. Huh. How blind she’d been!

      ‘Well?’ Stella put her knife and fork neatly together on her plate. She hadn’t eaten everything but these days her appetite was tiny, and Laura had learned not to try to persuade her to eat more. That worked with some of her clients but Gran would just dig her heels in.

      ‘What?’

      ‘Have you decided? Will you take a holiday?’

      Laura smiled. ‘You know, I think I might. Since you seem so eager to get rid of me! I do quite fancy a trip to the Lake District, and I’ve still got my old tent somewhere.’

      ‘Good! I’m really pleased. It’ll do you good. You need it and you deserve it. The dinner was delicious, by the way. I’d help you wash up, if I could, but thankfully I can’t.’ Stella grinned impishly, and Laura chuckled at the joke she made after every evening meal.

      ‘No problem, Gran, I’ll do it this time,’ she said, parroting the usual response.

      As she washed up, a thought came to her. Where was that old tent, and her sleeping bag? She’d brought a car full of stuff to Gran’s when she’d left the flat she’d shared with Stuart, but were the tent and sleeping bag amongst it all? Not that she could remember. With a sinking feeling she remembered that she’d stored it in an eaves cupboard at the flat – the one in Martine’s bedroom – and she had not checked that cupboard when she moved out. It had all been a bit of a rush.

      Not for the first time, she relived that hideous day in her mind as she worked. She’d gone home early because she could feel herself coming down with a cold. In her job, it was not a good idea to battle on through bugs and germs, as it was too easy to pass them on to her frailer clients. She’d called the office, who had been able to get someone else to do her last two care visits of the day, and had gratefully driven back to the flat, picking up some Beecham’s cold cures on the way. She’d let herself in, expecting the flat to be empty, but then had heard sounds coming from the bedroom she shared with Stuart. He ought to have been at work. Thinking perhaps someone had broken in, she’d grabbed a golfing umbrella from the hat stand as the nearest thing she had to a weapon, steeled herself, then burst in through the bedroom door, shouting and brandishing the umbrella. The first thing she’d seen was Stuart’s bare bum thrusting up and down; the second thing was Martine’s shocked face, peering over his shoulder.

      Stuart looked around. ‘Fuck, Lols, you gave me a fright! What’s with the screaming and all?’

      ‘Laura, oh my God!’ Martine shuffled out from underneath Stuart, grabbed the nearest item to cover herself – Laura’s fleecy dressing gown – and pushed past Laura, out of the room.

      Laura was speechless. How long she had stood there, staring at Stuart, she didn’t know. It could have been two seconds or twenty minutes. Her mind was in turmoil. Stuart? And Martine? Martine, who she’d considered her best friend. Stuart was scrabbling around for his clothes, which were strewn across the floor. As he stood up to pull on his underpants Laura finally found her voice. ‘How long?’

      ‘You what?’

      ‘How long – has this been going on?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘You and Martine, of course! What do you think I’m talking about? How long have you been . . . shagging her?’ She spat the word out.

      ‘Shit, I dunno, Lols, not long, it’s just . . .’

      ‘Ten months.’ Martine was standing behind her, now dressed in her own clothes. ‘Sorry, Laura. You had to find out sooner or later but I