“Look, dear, I know I’m not a technical wizard like all you youngsters, but could I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“Do you think maybe that old telephone contraption on the wall over there might still be of use?” asked Mrs M, pointing to a grey wall phone fixed next to a backboard. “I know they worked fine back in my day for old ladies like me.”
“Okay, Mrs M. Enough with the smartass for one morning. I didn’t know that was there. Yes, I’m sure it works fine, but I still have the email with all the key phone numbers and contact details on my dead mobile phone. I didn’t think to print off a paper copy, and they didn't leave anything in the lodge. Doesn't matter anyway. Last night, I remember Johnny saying the contact would come over this morning. So while we wait for them, I’m going keep myself busy decorating the place.”
“Good plan. Are you putting anything up in here?”
“Just a few things.”
“Maybe get that finished before the rabble returns. I’ve a feeling we’ll be spending a lot of time in this room. But first, give me an hour to get some things started then come back and I’ll help you.”
Within the hour, Trevor had strung up the garlands and tartan ribbons he had spent hours assembling at home, and although they looked fine, they seemed lost in the huge living space. At some point he would need a ladder to reach higher places. As he worked, wonderful smells of pastry and cinnamon and other spices began to creep through the lodge. When he eventually entered the kitchen, Mrs M had countertops full of pots, pans and food. Between checking the Aga and furiously kneading dough, she helped him with the minimal kitchen decorations, leaving him to head back to the main living space.
Standing in the entryway, he studied the space with a critical eye. They had chosen well this year. The photographs on the website did not do the lodge justice. At the far end stood the building’s focal point, a magnificent semi-circular communal area with floor-to-ceiling windows providing stunning panoramic views over the loch. In the centre, a modern faux-log gas fire encased in a circle of red brick and covered above by an enormous steel flue made the whole ensemble appear almost ceremonial. A semi-circle of comfy settees in beige cotton surrounded the fireplace. Where the windows ended either side of the vista, the owners had built dark oak bookcases. Only the long bar of mahogany built into the left wall interrupted the walls of books. Using dark wood in the living area had been masterful and drew the eye to the natural light filtering into the room and out to the rugged but spectacular scenery beyond.
Even when he had first entered the room that morning with Cheryl by his side and both had gasped at the sheer magnificence of the space, he’d known instinctively that a traditional Christmas theme would work perfectly. But to do the lodge justice, he would need supplies from nature. They had been promised a Christmas tree as a part of the holiday package, and Trevor was disappointed to find the owners had left them nothing. Cheryl’s joke that the tree might be hidden away with the fuse box had done nothing to lighten his mood. For someone recently dumped, she seemed to be coping better than him. Although he said nothing to her, he wondered if the lack of power and the absence of a Christmas tree were further signs that they should never have agreed to come.
At eleven o’clock, with his wellies tugged on, plastic garden sacks in hand and a forced resolve, he set out to scavenge the grounds around the lodge.
As the overnight frost burned off, a cloudless morning began to bathe the ground in steamy warmth. Trevor climbed the small path to higher ground, partly to forage for holly, evergreens and fir branches, but also to get an open view of the lodge. He stopped to catch his breath under a blazing sun, removed and tied his coat around his waist and even thought about taking off his woollen jumper. Finding the perfect vantage point, he perched down cross-legged in the rough grass and took in the view.
Whoever had planned the lodge’s renovation had attempted to keep the original building’s essence and merge old with new. Maybe that had been a condition of the planning permission if, as Trevor suspected, the lodge was a listed heritage building. Whether purposely or by coincidence, the building had been forged into the shape of a Celtic cross.
At the newly built end facing the lake, the architect had created the circular communal living area on the ground level with the huge glass windows and outside porch. Three bedrooms jutting out from the floor above had balconies overlooking the scenery. Despite attempts to blend old and new stonework, the lower floor of the building followed a traditional design, restored and updated in places, but the same structure as the original building, which culminated in the extended kitchen and the car park. All anxiety about the holiday began to melt away with the frost, and Trevor started to treasure being in this little corner of paradise.
On his stroll down another lane towards the lodge, he noticed a cluster of wild purple thistles over a barbed wire fence. In his mind he had planned the theme as Christmas scarlet and green, but seeing them growing wild he decided the Scottish national flower should have a place in their temporary home.
Even leaning carefully over the barbed railing, using his coat for protection, he couldn’t reach the plants. Undeterred, he carefully pushed his arm through the wire and stretched forwards with a gloved hand. Just as he had grasped a couple of prickly stems, his foot slipped on the slope of an unseen ditch, the arm of his woollen jumper snagging on a barb, and, with a gasp, he fell up to his groin in ice-cold bog water. With one arm trapped and the other clutching uselessly at flora—but otherwise unharmed—he stopped panicking and took a few steadying breaths.
And that’s when Trevor saw him.
In the distance, a man—gloriously shirtless—on a shiny black horse moved leisurely along a dirt track through the glen, hauling a small cart laden with what appeared to be a pine tree. For some reason, the sight struck Trevor as vaguely comical, but as the man neared, Trevor’s breath caught at the smooth masculinity. Broad-shouldered and upright in the saddle, he wore his hair short beneath a black cap, college-boy style, and had a dark dusting of stubble. Even from a distance Trevor could make out the thick, muscular thighs in jodhpurs and the carved lines in the pale skin of his hairless chest, muscled arms and rippled stomach. Waking himself from his fixation, he realised he needed to get the rider’s attention. Until he saw the man already heading his way even though he appeared in no hurry. As he neared, Trevor could have sworn the rider was trying to control an amused and frankly rather handsome grin on his face.
“You enjoying yourself down there?” he called, his voice a pleasant baritone with a trace of a Scots accent.
“Having a bit of trouble, actually.”
“Aye, you surely are.”
“Sorry, can I ask why you’re not wearing any clothes?” said Trevor. He hated sounding like his grandmother but seemed unable to stop himself. “You’ll catch your death.”
Almost upon Trevor now, the man pulled on the reins and unhurriedly brought the horse to a stop. After a glance down at his own body—as though noticing his semi-nakedness for the first time—the man levelled a humoured gaze at Trevor.
“First of all, I was not expecting to see anyone else out here today. And you may not know this if your accent is anything to go by, but it’s a rare hot day for this part of the world. So I thought I’d get some sunshine. D’you not consider this hot?”
An inappropriate response to the question formed in Trevor’s head.
“As you can see, I’ve been otherwise preoccupied.”
Even though the young man didn’t laugh, he looked away to smile into the sky. He had a strong profile—formal, solid and defined, something Trevor's grandmother might have referred to as ‘good breeding’.
“Aye, you surely have.”
“Don’t suppose there’s any chance of a hand?” asked Trevor.
“Give me a minute.”
