“Stuff it, no. Let’s do it, Mrs M. If not for us, for Monica. She loved this time of year. And we’re gathering in the land of her ancestors, the Caledonian Celts.”
“Oh, baby,” she said, putting her arm around his shoulders and hugging him tightly. “You have such a good heart. I promise never to mention this again for the duration of the holiday, but Karl was neither right nor good enough for you.”
“You’re obligated to say that. It’s written into the mother charter under the ‘Cheryl’s best friend’ subsection. So how many are we now?”
“You, me and Cheryl.”
“Three.”
“Karl and his new—is she his girlfriend?” asked Mrs M.
“Partner, I think.”
“What’s her name?”
“No idea. But that makes us five.”
“Jessica and this guy she’s bringing. From Hannah’s office.”
“Seven then. Are they a couple?”
“Not according to Hannah.”
“How are they travelling there?”
“Train, I think. Not our problem, is it? They have the address.”
“Are they even gay?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Heaven help us,” Trevor said, shaking his head. “This keeps getting better and better. Seven of us in a seven-bedroom converted lakeside lodge—sorry, lochside lodge—that sleeps up to eighteen. Obscene, really. Mind you, the place looks amazing, especially the kitchen. Did Cheryl show you the latest website photos? Modernised, but they’ve still maintained its vintage charm, especially with that huge Aga cooker.”
“Never trust photographs. Remember the Lake District? All mod cons, my foot. Just because they provided a four-slice toaster and a heated towel rack. And I’ve tried cooking on many an Aga, and recall what a temperamental pain in the backside they can be.”
“That’s your superpower, Mrs M. Wrestling temperamental pains in the backside. I suppose you’ve packed enough food to feed the whole village?”
“You might thank me if we’re snowed in.”
“The way the weather’s been playing up, we’re more likely to experience heat stroke.”
At that very moment, Cheryl emerged from the house, juggling three mugs of something hot and steaming. Decked out in her faux-Versace beige-and-burgundy silk dressing gown and pink slippers, she came to a stop before the garden gate. With a mimed roar, she issued a steamy yawn into the morning.
“Trevor Oswald McTavish,” came her familiar voice. She was the only person he would allow to use his full name. Sometimes his friends called him Mac, because nobody—nobody—ever referred to him as Trev. Not unless they wanted to be ghosted. Considering everything that had gone down over the past twenty-four hours, she did not look too bad. “Thought I heard your dulcet tones. Well, don’t sit there like pigeons on a pole. One of you open the gate for poor, lonesome old me. Can’t you see my hands are full?”
“Someone’s cheered up,” whispered her mother. “Must be hearing your voice, Trevor.” Standing up from the tailgate, she went over and unlatched the access. “I thought you were showering. You told me we needed to be on the road early, to beat the traffic.”
“I didn’t know if you and Trevor had decided to pull the plug. But judging by your smiling faces, I guess not. And anyway, there’s no rush now. I just checked the satnav app and listened to the latest traffic report.” Cheryl handed a mug of deep brown tea to her mother, and a milkier version to Trevor. “Looks as though people stayed home. So we may as well do the M25, M40 then hit the M6. If we leave by nine, with an hour’s stop for lunch, we’ll reach the lodge between eight and nine this evening.”
“Perfect,” said Mrs M, taking a sip from her mug and pulling a face. “Means we’ll arrive in time for a quick shower and a bite to eat before bedtime. Then a whole day getting things ready before the others arrive.”
Trevor studied Cheryl as Mrs M spoke. She seemed far too bright and perky considering everything. Either she was putting on a brave face or, more likely, the news had not been unexpected.
“So what’s gonna be the theme this time, Martha Stewart?” Cheryl asked him.
Each year, Trevor had been tasked with decorating the venue in readiness for the rest of the troupe’s arrival. If Cheryl’s mum excelled in the kitchen, his forte was in decorating spaces. On the first trip he’d created a freedom rainbow theme, conceptually tricky but accomplished without making the place seem too tacky, or like a set from My Little Pony. In subsequent years, other people had pushed their choices—Frozen’s pure white, and blue for Johnny and Frank, after their favourite Christmas song, Blue Christmas.
This season Trevor had consulted nobody. But he always remembered Monica’s reaction whenever he unveiled one of his creations, a simple, ‘Nice, Mac, but what’s wrong with normal decorations?’ This year, he had decided to go with a conventional Christmas theme, fresh and natural, incorporating whatever he could find around the lodge. Hopefully this would entail a visual and fragrant display of branches of fir, evergreen and pine cones, items he could fix together and finish off with the red or tartan ribbons he had brought from home. No gaudy colours, no artificial paints or glitter this year, just earth colours and raw materials.
