“Honestly, you kids. Surprised none of you have checked to see if there’s a pizza delivery service nearby.”
“You don’t think—?” began Cheryl hopefully.
“Of course not. But just as well I was a Girl Scout in my youth. Along with food supplies I brought a big box of candles—large red ones for the Christmas table, but I think our need is greater right now. And my camping gas stove is still in the car from an old field trip. Come on, let’s get busy. Fill a saucepan with water, Cheryl. Trevor, use your light to hunt around for cups, saucers and a teapot. Johnny, find out where the plates and cutlery are stored and get some for each of us. I’ll go and fetch the cooker from the car.”
Once they had followed Mrs M’s orders, Cheryl and Trevor set about lighting candles, placing them in saucers and arranging them in the centre of the kitchen table while Mrs M set up the make-do stove. After setting a large pan of water to boil, she sent them off into the lodge with their phone lights to claim their bedrooms.
Trevor picked the one nearest the kitchen. According to the website, this more compact bedroom had a small double bed and would be perfect for one person. Larger bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms were situated on the first floor with views over the loch. No doubt Johnny and Frank would be first to bag one of those.
When he returned to the kitchen, the candlelit dining table looked like something out of a Dickens novel, brightened by a floral China teapot and matching cups and saucers. Mrs M had her back to him, the large pan on her portable stove hissing and spitting, the scent of frying bacon filling the air. Everyone wandered back in dribs and drabs, enthusing about their rooms but even more about the smells coming from the kitchen. Mrs M knocked up a very palatable meal of fried eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes and mushrooms—more like breakfast really, but nobody complained. At the end of the meal Trevor led the round of compliments to an amused Mrs M.
“This may sound weird,” said Frank, leaning back, his arms folded over his stomach. “But this already seems right. I feel completely at home here.”
“I know what you mean, Frank,” agreed Johnny. “Candlelight, cups of tea and a fry up. And darned good company. Good to be back, to be sure.”
“And it’s good that you two are here to help,” said Mrs M, nodding at them. “Cheryl needs a hand getting some last-minute things in town tomorrow morning. Give you a chance to have a look around the town and get yourselves lunch. More importantly, I don’t want you under my feet while I’m trying to find my way around this kitchen.”
“She means you,” said Frank, nudging Johnny.
“She means all of us,” said Cheryl. “Except Trevor. He needs time and space to work his decorating magic.”
“Exactly,” said Mrs M, clearing plates away. “Now how about telling us what mischief you two reprobates have been up to since you disappeared off the map.”
“In which case,” said Johnny, standing up from the table and getting a bag he had left on the kitchen floor, “can I tempt you all to some after-dinner Turkish delights? And I’m not talking about the sugary, squidgy, sweet version. Frank, while I do the honours, tell them about us almost getting arrested in Sudan.”
While Frank mesmerised them with their world adventures, Johnny produced two bottles of Lebanese red wine and a selection of Turkish cheeses that he said he had been saving for Christmas Day. Impressing them all, while unwrapping the cheeses, he recited the names of each in turn—Kasar, Tulum, Kelle, Dil, Örgü, Van Otlu and Kuymak—until Frank held one of them up to a candle and pointed out that the shopkeeper had written the names on the paper wrappers. While everyone else groaned, Trevor couldn’t help but smile. More than anything, he hoped the sense of fun and optimism would remain tomorrow evening when everyone else arrived.
With his spiked black hair, permanently creased forehead and quick dark eyes, Frank Ward had developed a roguish charm. Born in a rough housing estate in East London, his mother had left home by the time he was six. Shorter and quieter than his three older brothers, he was bullied relentlessly. When Trevor first met him, Johnny Reilly told the story of the days fifteen-year-old Frank slept rough after being chucked out by his dad for coming out, but not before being kicked and punched by his brothers until they had broken two of his ribs. Frank rarely talked about those dark days, only ever quipped about the Irish ginger knob—Johnny—who volunteered as a counsellor at the gay shelter and had offered to take him in temporarily until he got himself back on his feet. Turned out Frank had an innate knack for electrical work and, after fixing up Johnny’s small flat then breezing through a couple of examinations, got himself a comfortably paid job as a sparky with a building company. By then, Johnny, three years his senior, had fallen for him so hard that rather than letting him leave, he’d pleaded for him to stay.
“Why didn’t Karl and Hannah come down with you?” Frank asked during a lull in the conversation, while topping up Frank’s tea cup with Merlot. “Is Karl working?”
Trevor stared into his tea cup as nobody answered. For the first time since they had sat down together, the mood dropped and Trevor realised they had some explaining to do.
“Hannah and I split up,” said Cheryl. Typical of her to come straight to the point while Trevor sat there quietly, unsure how to tell them about him and Karl. “She’s not coming.”
“Oh feck. So sorry, Cher.”
“Let me guess. Hannah met someone else, didn’t she?” said Frank. At best, he and Hannah had tolerated each other for the sake of keeping the peace. When Cheryl nodded, he muttered something under his breath that nobody could hear.
“Karl’s coming tomorrow,” said Trevor, ignoring Cheryl’s candlelit glare. Johnny and Frank knew nothing about what had happened earlier in the year, and he didn’t want to dampen the upbeat mood. At least, that’s what he told himself.
“Come on, Trevor,” said Cheryl from across the table. “You’re going to have to tell them. May as well rip off the bandage and come clean.”
“Tell us what?” said Frank, mirroring Johnny’s posture and leaning back in his chair, his hands folded behind his head.
Trevor studied them both, wondering how much he should tell them about his dreadful year. But then, maybe they would understand, because the two of them had lived through far worse.
“Come on, buddy boy,” said Johnny. “Spill the beans. What’s Karl Marx been up to this time? Not been in the slammer, has he? Arrested for throwing his soiled Y-fronts at UKIP supporters.”
“I wish it were that simple. But the truth is, we’re not together anymore. He’s just, he…”
Trevor faltered and breathed out a sigh, wondering when explaining Karl’s act of marital treason to people was going to get any easier.
“He switched sides,” finished Mrs M loudly, turning around from the sink. “Decided he’s not gay anymore. So he walked out on Trevor and now he’s shacked up with a woman.”
“He’s what?” asked Johnny, aghast, thumping forwards in his seat, his thick red eyebrows scrunched together. “Tell me you’re pulling me fecking weasel?”
“No, Johnny. Mrs M’s right. We broke up. And he’s already moved in with his new girlfriend.”
