Five hundred miles and three pit stops later, they left the A82 to circumvent Britain’s highest mountain, Ben Nevis, and hit the small B-road heading for Loch Arkaig. Winter’s night had comfortably settled in. Rainclouds had cleared along the route, and the otherwise rain-washed lanes glistened with a magical sheen of ice, headlights and moonlight.
After handing over the driving to Trevor at the final stop, Mrs M had taken the back seat and promptly fallen asleep, leaving Cheryl to navigate. Trevor enjoyed driving, loved to be focused when the pure act emptied everything else from his usually busy mind—especially the thought of running into Karl again. When he turned the Volvo onto a small gravel track at almost precisely eight-thirty and bumped towards the silhouetted structure of Stratham Lodge, Cheryl was the first to spot another car parked on the far side, the lights on and engine still running.
“Must be the owner’s contact. Right on time.”
“Let me sort the keys out,” said Trevor as he parked up and switched off the engine. “Looks freezing out. Stay here in the warmth with your mum. Once I’ve got the door unlocked, I’ll come and fetch you.”
“Go on. I need to check my phone for messages now we’ve stopped moving.”
They had in common that neither of them could read text in a moving vehicle without feeling carsick. Trevor half suspected that Cheryl wanted to check if Hannah had been in touch. When he pushed the door open, chill air invaded instantly, so despite stiffened joints, he hurried out and slammed the door behind him. Across the parking area, seeing his approach, the driver’s door opened and the silhouette of a man unfolded into the night.
“Trevor, my man. How’re they hanging?” came a familiar Irish voice.
“Johnny? Johnny Reilly?” Either because of the chill air or the sudden surge of emotion, Trevor’s eyes began to well up. “What the hell are you doing here? We thought you weren’t coming. Aren’t you and Frank supposed to be on a beach in Iran or Lebanon—or somewhere like that?”
“See, Frank, you dickwad,” said Johnny, leaning down to address his companion, who had sensibly chosen to remain in the warmth of the car. “I told you the card we sent from Istanbul never arrived. Bet the bloody thing’s still behind the hotel reception. We never said we weren’t coming, Mac. Truth is, we wouldn’t have missed this for the world. Umph. What’s that for?”
While he had been talking, Trevor had strode over and pulled him off balance into a fierce hug. Finally, something good had come out of their potential catastrophe. He held tight and pushed his face into Johnny’s collar.
“You have no idea how pleased I am to see you guys.”
“Mary and Joseph, sounds like someone’s got a story to tell,” said Johnny softly, before pushing an arm around Trevor’s shoulders and squeezing, staring with concern. Not wanting to worry Johnny, Trevor pulled away and shook his head before taking the set of keys offered by his friend. “We gave your name to the young fellow-me-lad from the big house and he left those with us. Headed off a few minutes ago but said he’d be back to check on us late morning tomorrow. We were going inside and see if we could light a fire, but apparently the place is centrally heated. He said the heating’s on a timer and already running. He also said you were due at any minute, which is why we decided to wait.”
They made a good team. Johnny used his phone torch to shine a light on the lock, while Trevor tested each of the keys in an attempt to open the front door. Behind them, the East London voice of Frank sounded.
“This hotel travel geezer in Turkey managed to get us a standby from Dalaman to Edinburgh. Hope you’re impressed. We’ve just flown two thousand bloody miles to be here, ‘cause Christmas wouldn’t be the same without a dose of Mrs M’s Christmas nosh. When was the last time we saw you, Trevor? February, March? Much happened since then?”
As the right key finally fit in the lock, Trevor turned and offered Johnny a world-weary shrug, probably wasted in the virtual darkness.
“If you’d hadn’t sold your phones before you left, you’d already know,” he called out.
“Digital detox, Trevor,” said Johnny. “That’s what we told everyone. Total absence of technology. Why do you think you got postcards, not emails?”
“Although, to be fair,” said Frank, “we bought a couple of cheapo phones and SIM cards at Edinburgh airport before picking up the rental. So we’re back online, kind of. I’ve got almost a year’s worth of email and text messages to trawl through.”
“Well, you can delete all of mine and we can do that over dinner,” said Trevor. “Let’s get unpacked first. Go in and switch the lights on while I fetch Cheryl and Mrs M.”
Back at the Volvo, he opened the door wide and broke the news to Cheryl, her reaction much the same as his. Together with the cold air, her squeals of joy woke Mrs M. Once he had brought them both quickly up to speed, they grabbed their luggage and headed to the sanctuary of the lodge.
The front door opened into the lodge’s left side, into a small anteroom with hooks for coats and racks for shoes. As Mrs M opened the next entry into the kitchen, a wave of pleasant warmth hit them, evidence that the owner had indeed activated the central heating. For some reason, neither Johnny nor Frank had turned on any lights. Cheryl found the switches first, but when she tried them, nothing happened.
“What the hell?”
“Not working,” came Frank’s voice as a flickering light from his phone announced his arrival. “We’ve been scouting around for the fuse box, but this place is a bleeding maze. Do you have the number of the owner, Trevor? I’ll take another look around, but all they need to do is tell us where the fuse box is.”
Trevor dug out his phone and noticed two things. Not only was the battery almost dead, but the device barely registered a signal. Without a word, he marched back out into the cold night, where the reception appeared strong and stable. Eventually he found an email from the owner with the telephone number, but the call went to voicemail each time he dialled.
“Bloody marvellous. Nobody’s answering,” he called to the darkness inside the house.
“Looks like there’s no electricity. Except for the built-in fridge, which is a little baffling,” said Cheryl, as Trevor entered and shut the door behind him. Using his phone light, he joined Johnny and Cheryl at the kitchen table. Both had their phone lights shining on their faces like something out of a low-budget horror film.
“Maybe some devices are on a different circuit,” continued Cheryl. “I just tried to plug in the kettle for a cup of tea, but no luck. The heating must be gas-fired. How about the Aga cooker, Mum?”
“Apart from not knowing whether this is gas or oil-fired,” said Mrs M, “from my limited experience, they take hours to get to a reasonable heat. I’ll tackle the monster first thing in the morning when there’s more light.”
“What are you saying, Mum? No tea?” came Cheryl’s whiny voice.
Despite groans from Trevor and Johnny—Frank was still lost in the lodge somewhere—Mrs M started chuckling. After her silhouette placed a cardboard box down by the sink, she turned to them, hands on hips.
