It’ll be just like it used to be. Good old Alice! I know I can depend on her. Let the party begin!
Chapter 3
The very act of getting to the cottage turned out to be a massive undertaking. I should have recognised that as an omen that our little escapade was going to be far from plain sailing. I didn’t know travelling from London to Fort William would take eleven hours – and by the time I’d tried to make a booking on the overnight sleeper, all the cabins had gone. Even though I caught the train at 5.00am, the day was almost over by the time I arrived.
Snow was on the way; I could smell it, feel the weight of it in the air as I finally stood on the station forecourt waiting for a taxi for the last leg of the journey. A few hardy types had alighted with me with stuffed rucksacks, their trousers tucked into thick woollen socks, but no one else. This place really was in the middle of nowhere.
What I noticed most was the severe drop in temperature. London felt like it belonged to a different season, as if during the train journey I must have crossed through an invisible curtain into another world.
After around fifteen minutes in the taxi, the cab driver pulled off a main road into the grounds of Duncaird Castle, then into a side road, then a track along the edge of a copse of dense trees. I watched the meter whizz round with the speed of a one-armed bandit, whittling away half the money I’d brought with me.
Eventually, the cabbie pulled up at the end of a track beside a broken wooden gate. He touched his cap as I handed over a couple of notes. He was keeping the change. Right. Fine.
He put the car into first gear and skidded away sending clumps of mud over my new boots; the ones mum didn’t approve of. Heels too high apparently. You’ll end up with bunion s, she’d warned when I’d brought them home from a trendy shop near Sloane Square. In the old days, I’d have taken them straight back for a refund, but not now. I loved them; they made me feel elegant (which is difficult at five feet two) and they made me walk differently. Like a woman, not a child. Mum was grumpy for a while, but she didn’t say anything else.
I’d brought hiking boots to the mountains too, of course, but I wanted Karen’s first impression of me to be at my elegant best.
As I turned towards the cottage, I fought against the tugging wind. It was like being blasted by a fire extinguisher. I grappled with the toggles on my coat to force it to wrap across my body. My lovely shiny boots were being sucked down into squelchy sludge with every step. Then there was long grass, solid ground and several steps. Before I raised the knocker, I heard a key clunk into the lock on the other side.
Karen opened the door. ‘Alice – it’s really you!’
She swamped me in a hug that nearly swept me off the ground. The interminable journey, the savage weather was forgotten; I was home at last.
‘I’m so glad you could come – you can’t imagine,’ she said. ‘You look amazing!’ She looked down at the short denim skirt under my coat, my trendy boots. ‘Look at you – all feminine and gorgeous. Your hair is longer now – I love the shaggy fringe – my goodness, how grown up you look!’ My heart flipped.
She looked radiant. Her long golden hair was glossy – a field of corn in a midday sun – her skin tight with no blemishes in sight.
Before I could catch my breath, she’d reached down and humped my suitcase and backpack into the hall.
I couldn’t hide how moved I was; half a decade of sadness, hurt and grief at having lost her – and then the joy of finding her again – it was suddenly too much for me.
She gently stroked a tear away from my cheek. ‘It’s been such a long time,’ she said, fixing her gaze on me like I was the most important person in the world. As if she’d been waiting a lifetime for this moment. ‘Come and get warm. You must be frozen.’ She took my coat and gloves. She peeled off my boots as I clung on to the newel post and left them on the mat to dry. Then she led me by the hand through a door that resembled a wooden gate into the sitting room.
‘Look – isn’t this place adorable?’ she exclaimed.
The cottage certainly had ‘rustic charm’, with its quaint low beams decorated with horse brasses, a sturdy Welsh dresser in the corner displaying willow-pattern plates and a crackling log fire. I knew it wasn’t possible, but nevertheless it felt several degrees chillier inside than it did outside.
‘I managed to get the log fire up and running,’ she said.
Chunks of fresh firewood were hissing and spitting in the grate. I shivered and reached out towards the flames. ‘Listen – I made a terrible mistake,’ she confessed. ‘Total idiot, I thought there’d be central heating. But we can snuggle up in front of the fire. It’ll make things even more cosy.’