The Frozen Lake: A gripping novel of family and wartime secrets. Elizabeth Edmondson
For Tio, who was there
This book is dedicated with love to my uncle,
James Edmondson, whose memories of Westmoreland winters of long ago and stories of life in the nineteen-thirties have been a delight and an inspiration
STOP PRESS
Westmoreland man killed in mountaineering accident
Neville Richardson, eldest son of Sir Henry and Lady Richardson of Wyncrag, fell to his death earlier this month, while climbing in the Andes. Aged forty-one, he leaves a wife, Helena, a son and two daughters. Sir Henry’s youngest son, Jack Richardson MC, died in France in 1917.
Never does the scenery appear to more advantage as when the lake is covered with transparent ice from end to end, and the glint of sunshine, investing its surface with bright and changeful colours, makes it appear like an opal set in a wreath of virgin white. Towards sunset the snow-clad fells assume every tint the sun can create, from deepest crimson to palest gold. Frost fringes becks and rivers, and the ice patterns windows with its chilly fingers, weaving ethereal cobwebs across hedges and fells. Breath freezes on the air and the black coats of Fell ponies on the hillside are dusted white, manes and eyelashes touched with ice, and icicles tangle the shaggy fleeces of the hardy native sheep while they forage for food beneath the snow.
There has not been a frost such as this since the winter of 1920/1921, and the news that the great lakes of the north are freezing over has reached not merely our local papers, but the columns of the great London newspapers, sending accounts of the icy weather around the globe. As northerners sharpen their skates and watch the clear blue skies and starry nights for any sign of an unwelcome break in the weather, exiles in England and abroad are remembering frozen days of long ago, closing their eyes to grey town streets as they dream of dazzling winter skies, of air unsullied by smoke and soot and fumes. In their minds, they are once again skating from one end of the lake to the other beneath the towering fells, sharp blades hissing on dazzling ice, ears and fingers tingling, spirits filled with a wild joy.
London, Chelsea
Why didn’t she go north for Christmas?
Alix Richardson broke two eggs into a bowl and stirred them with a fork. Cecy Grindley’s words hadn’t been critical or nosy, she had just asked a simple and natural question. Even though her childhood friend was aware of Alix’s sentiments towards her grandmother, she didn’t see that as a good reason for staying away from Wyncrag.
Cecy was probably right. Alix stared down at the yellow mixture without enthusiasm. She didn’t care much for omelettes, but seemed to be eating a lot of them.
Food for a solitary life.
Other people spent Christmas with their families. It was customary, even if they regretted it every time, and every year swore, never again. Those who had no real family life always imagined such gatherings as the acme of happiness and warmth, although the truth was that they were just as likely to turn out disastrously: family rows, old grudges dug up to fuel resentment and animosity, lost tempers and frayed nerves exposed over roast meats and bumpers of brandy.
Alix lit the gas under the omelette pan and watched the knob of butter dissolve and sizzle. Christmas at Wyncrag wasn’t like that. Grandmama’s eyebrows might be raised, but never voices. Temper, anger and arguments had no place in that household. Nursery scenes were kept to the nursery; once outside those protective doors, good manners and fear of Grandmama kept the house serene and orderly. On the surface, at any rate.
She poured the beaten eggs into the butter and tilted the pan as the omelette began to cook. There had been a time, once, when noise and laughter and happy voices had been heard at Wyncrag. When she and Edwin and Isabel and their parents had been together as a family.
In her mind’s eye, Alix could see her sister coming home to Wyncrag from a day’s shooting, before the frost had set in and the snow had swept down from the fells. Even at fourteen, Isabel had been a first-rate shot, unlike the rest of her family, who might take out a gun from time to time, but shared none of their neighbours’ passion for the sport.
She could remember being on the ice with Edwin, her twin, that December, sliding and skating and tobogganing.
The holiday had begun with the house ringing to children’s excited shrieks and the sound of their running feet – and had ended with cold, half-overheard