Jake sighed heavily, anticipating a wasted trip. Unless a miracle had happened in the intervening months since he last set foot in this part of the world, Jake expected he would be making a trip back into town to find something halfway decent.
Before he turned the car around, Jake decided to satisfy his curiosity and drive up to the house, for old times’ sake. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he remembered, and if not, he intended for them to stay. Marcus was in bad shape; he needed to get out of the car and sleep in a proper bed.
Jake reduced his speed to a crawl and kept an eye out for the house. He spotted the last lark stuck on the last remaining tree, pointing up the drive of the last house in the cul de sac.
‘Oh boy, I’m just loving every minute,’ said Jake to the bird.
He approached the drive to the house with trepidation. He had the impulse to turn the car around and stop wasting his time. What stopped him was the level of traffic he had encountered on the way through the town. It was July, and judging by the school-age kids around on a Wednesdayafternoon, Jake was guessing they had already broken up for the summer break and parents were putting the week to good use, holidaying in Scotland. Holiday accommodation would be sparse.
Jake made a sharp right turn and nearly collided with a pair of seven-foot-high wrought iron gates that were obscured from the road by the tall hedging that bordered the property. He slammed on the brakes. On the left was a wooden sign announcing Lark Lodge, with a silhouette of a lark and an artistic sketch of the outline of a house. Jake liked the sign. Next, his attention was drawn to the arched gates in front of him. At the top of the gates were the wordsLark Lodge, carved out in wrought iron. He didn’t remember this, but then he only had a vague recollection of the grounds.
Jake was about to open the car door and get out when the gates let out a metal clang and slowly edged open – outwards.
Jake swiftly put the car into reverse and backed up.
‘What’s going on?’ Marcus was now sitting up, surveying his surroundings.
Jake ignored him, his attention diverted by the thought of another car swinging into the drive, straight into his reversing behind. When he thought the gates had opened sufficiently to get the car through, Jake drove in. The gates slowly closed behind him.
Taking the winding drive really slowly in case he came across anything else unexpected, Jake noted the well-tended lawn on either side. It was a good sign. He hoped. There were neat flower borders, and a cream table and chair set outside some French doors. Things had certainly changed. He might not remember the grounds too well, but he’d have remembered this.
Jake’s eyes grew wide as Lark Lodge came into view. The house was impressive; the broken shutters and peeling paint were gone, replaced by bright green shutters which beautifullycomplemented soft cream wooden windows, and re-pointed and sandblasted grey brickwork. From the cellar windows up to the small turrets at the top of the house, it was obvious that the place had been completely restored to its former glory – it looked stunning.
It looked exactly how Jake imagined a building of this age would have looked when it had first been built. The work carried out on the old house must have been extensive. There was only one possible explanation; Dr and Mrs Belafonte, and their old green Bentley, must indeed be gone. Their daughter, who had inherited the place, must have sold it on. He wondered in passing if it was the same teenage girl who had once scared him and Marcus witless.
The drive ended in a large, oval-shaped gravel car parking area in front of the house. Jake drew up alongside the only other car parked outside. He got out and eyed the green Bentley. He looked up at the house and back at the car. Maybe the new owners had bought the car too – it was a beautiful car.
Jake slammed his car door shut and went to open the rear door for Marcus. Jake peered in at him. ‘An amazing transformation, isn’t it?’
Marcus nodded slowly at the house.
Jake remained where he was for a moment, looking at Marcus looking at the house. He wondered what was going through his mind. Jake had a feeling this was going to be a sobering experience for both of them being back in Aviemore.
‘Come on,’ said Jake trying to sound casual, as though it was no big deal to be back. He circled the car to get his bag and Marcus’s suitcase out of the boot.
Jake shut the boot; his hands smarting. He picked up the shoulder straps, put his bag over his shoulder, and grabbed the handle of Marcus’s case. When he looked up, the door was still open. Marcus was still inside the car. Jake sighed. He movedforward and stopped by the open car door to tell Marcus that he didn’t give a toss how ill he was feeling – if didn’t get out of the car straight away, he would be forced to carry his own case up to the house. There were steps. He’d have to lift it.
Marcus got out of the car.
‘Ready?’ said Jake.
Marcus turned his attention to Jake. ‘Wasn’t there somewhere else to stay – in the town centre, perhaps?’
Jake glared at Marcus. He’d driven all the way there, and now Marcus had the audacity to complain about the choice. ‘Why don’tyousuggest somewhere then?’
‘I did!’ Marcus threw up his arms.
‘I amnotstaying at The Lake House.’ Jake was adamant. ‘Besides, we’re here now and …’ Jake turned towards Lark Lodge, ‘it looks quite nice.’ It was quite the understatement. It looked amazing. But would they have vacancies? And if they did, would the proprietor be happy for two guys, one with bandages, the other looking the worse for wear, to stay at their establishment?
Jake heaved a sigh.What do I have to lose?he thought.I’m here now.
On the porch, Jake put his bag down and rang the doorbell. Noticing Marcus wasn’t beside him, he turned round to find Marcus still standing by the car. Jake waved his arm in awill-you-come-ongesture of annoyance.
Behind him, Jake heard the front door open.
An old lady in a stained pinafore greeted him with a slightly bemused expression on her craggy face. ‘May I help you?’ her voice wavered.
‘Mrs Belafonte?’ It couldn’t be. Mrs Belafonte must be ninety by now; how could she run a guesthouse? He thought she’d passed on. But perhaps William had his facts wrong.
