Bobby McGee

Chapter Thirty-nine. Peter McGee's Return.

Chapter Thirty-nine

Return of Peter McGee

A year has passed since Mo's disappearance. She has not been found.

It was early August. The whole country, even the notoriously cool and wet Lake District, was in the throes of an extended heat wave. The drive up the A6 in Gillian's recently purchased Ford Prefect had been almost unbearable. Even with the windows down, and the fan at full blast, all they had achieved was more efficient circulation of hot humid air. Cooling drinks gave momentary respite, but eventually just added to the pools of sweat that soaked their skimpy clothes.

"Once we hit Greenodd we'll be able to take a dip," Peter promised.

"Where's Greenodd?" Gillian asked.

"We'll pass through it on our way. It's right next to the sea."

Unfortunately when they reached the tiny village, the tide was out, and the bathing pool in the nearby River Crake, only sufficed for an ankle deep paddle. The locals claimed that the river, flowing into the sea, was at its lowest level ever.

"If tha wants to swim, tha should nip up to Coniston. Still plenty of wata there."

Peter heeded this local advice and guided Gillian up the Eastern side of the lake, the side that tourists normally avoided.

The route to the lake followed B class roads that were less than ten feet wide. It was a difficult drive, as the roads were bordered with huge hedgerows blocking the view at every bend. They needed to be constantly on the lookout for oncoming traffic, sheep that had wandered down from the surrounding fells, and occasional groups of hikers. After one particularly sharp curve, on the brow of a hill, Peter saw they were heading directly in to what appeared to be a stampede. Gillian slammed on the brakes. The car stalled. Within seconds they found themselves surrounded by a galloping herd of cattle that had escaped from pasture.

The cows passed. Gillian drove on, only to meet an oncoming tractor and trailer driven by an obviously irate farmer. Two black and white border collies were bounding about in the trailer. The farmer pulled the tractor to a halt, clambered down, and approached Gillian's side of the car. He placed one hand on the roof of the car, and peered inside.

"Has ta seen my bloody cows?"

"They just passed us a few minutes ago," replied Gillian.

"Bloody hikers. Went and left t' bloody gate open. There should be a law banning 'em. It'll take me hours to git 'em back. I might be too late for t' bloody milking. I'm afraid tha's gonna have to back up, lass, so I can pass."

Gillian had only recently passed her driving test, and squirmed at the thought of reversing along such a narrow, winding road. "Peter would you mind taking over?"

The farmer returned to his tractor muttering something about "bloody useless women drivers".

Peter took the wheel, and slowly reversed the car. They had to close the windows to protect themselves from the smell of recently deposited cow dung and the hordes of flies that had been attracted to the feast. It was almost a quarter mile to a gated entrance to a field. Peter pulled the car to a stop against the gate. There was now sufficient room for the tractor to pass. The farmer drove by giving what appeared to be a friendly wave. Peter slipped the car in to gear and drove back along the lane, passed the spot where they had first encountered the tractor, took a sharp turn left, and came upon a lay-by overlooking the lake.

"The bastard. The bloody bastard," exclaimed Peter. "He only had to reverse less than a hundred yards."

"Why would he be so mean?" Gillian asked.

"I dunno. He probably realised from your licence plates that we were tourists and he obviously has no time for them."

"Or maybe he's just an old sod."

Peter laughed at Gillian's unexpected coarse remark

The lake came in to view. "Not far now. Five more minutes." said Peter. He eventually brought the car to a halt beside a copse bordering the rocky shore of the lake. They found a spot on the fringe of the wood, at the water's edge. It was cool, and free from prying eyes.

Shyly, Gillian retreated in to the woods to don her swimsuit. Peter changed on the shore. Gillian emerged from the trees. Peter looked over at her. She was wearing a bright yellow bikini. The colour didn't match her pale skin, tinted pink from sunbathing, and she didn't have the figure for such a costume. She was a pretty girl, well stacked, but had a behind that had prospered from too many hours spent in an office chair. The backs of her thighs were showing signs of dimpling and her lower legs were extremely thin, completely out of proportion to her broad hips.

Gillian, seemingly oblivious to Peter's critical gaze, tiptoed across the pebbled shore in to the placid, cooling waters of Lake Coniston. "Are you coming Peter? The water's lovely."

"Maybe in the shallows and on the surface," thought Peter, but he knew from experience how frigid the depths could be.

"Come on."

Peter rose from his towel. He was well over six feet tall with a body that had been toned by vigorous workouts at the Air Force Academy. He was wearing skimpy, flesh coloured, faux-leather trunks that concealed nothing. Gillian was waiting for him. In waist deep water she looked alluring.

"This is so amazing, Peter. It's so clear I can see my toes."

Peter dove head first in to the cool refreshing water and resurfaced facing Gillian. She avoided his searching hands by diving backwards.

"Catch me if you can, you dirty old man." She turned and headed out towards what looked like a marker buoy, situated about forty yards from the shore. Gillian was an excellent swimmer and reached the marker long before Peter. He was not that comfortable in the water, having a tendency to tense up, and not breathe correctly. Despite being in excellent physical condition he tired easily in the water.

"Are there rocks there?" he asked. "I need to rest."

"Should there be rocks?"

"I would have thought so," he panted. "The marker buoys usually indicate navigation hazards of some kind."

"I don't see any. I'll dive down and take a look. Will you be alright?"

"Yeah. I've got my breath back. I can tread water for a while."

*****

Gillian dove under the buoy and resurfaced almost immediately. "There's a rope tied to the buoy," she spluttered. "It must be tied to something on the bottom."

"Can you see what it is?"

"No the water seems to be quite deep here."

"Could you follow the rope down?"

"I'll give it a try."

Gillian took a deep breath and dove. She grasped the taut rope and descended hand under hand. Near the surface she was able to see down a distance of about ten feet but as she descended her range of vision decreased and the water became increasingly cold. The rope seemed to be endless. She felt her lungs compressing. She released her grip and thrashed to the surface.

"It's too deep Peter," she gasped. "Just too deep."

"That's strange. I wonder if it's a marker of some kind. Maybe it's something to do with the Campbells."

"Who are they?"

"Chaps who attempted to break water speed records here. Maybe they've found some wreckage here. But not to worry, I'm sure some of the locals will know. Let's head back to shore. We have to find somewhere to stay tonight."

Slowly they side-stroked their way back to shore. A mutual towelling and disrobing led to the inevitable.

The week had started well.