Chapter 25
‘Follow the lark,’ Jake mumbled to himself, frowning as he drove slowly back through Aviemore without a clue as to what exactly he was meant to be looking for. What had Mr Addison meant when he’d said follow the lark? The holiday was getting weirder by the hour. He felt like he’d stepped into the Land of Oz. It brought to mind Eleanor’s favourite childhood movie, the one she had watched over and over, especially her favourite scene: Dorothy closing her eyes, tapping her shoes together, and saying, one, two, three – there’s no place like home.
Jake sighed heavily. This place brought back too many memories. That was why there was no way he would stay at The Lake House. Instead, he’d chosen to take Mr Addison’s advice and find Lark Lodge; he just hoped there were vacancies.
He concentrated on the road ahead, conscious of the fact that the end of the town was in sight, still with no sign of Lark Lodge. He was beginning to think the search was futile when he spotted a small, bird-shaped sign stuck to a tree. Another sign further along had the lark sitting in a nest, presumably indicating a bed. Jake began to smile. ‘Somebody’s got a sense of humour,’ he murmured as they headed away from the centre, where the larger properties nestled on the fringe of the town near the lakeshore. This looks promising , thought Jake. Next up, the bird had a stockpile of nuts and seeds, representing, Jake assumed, that it offered bed and breakfast.
The beak pointed left.
‘Shit!’ Jake stopped the car. He sat at the crossroads, looking left down the familiar street.
‘What’s the matter?’ said Marcus, rising from the back seat.
Jake glanced over his shoulder. Marcus looked very pale, and he was shivering. Jake thought that it wasn’t a hotel he needed but a doctor. He said as much.
‘I just need to rest, that’s all.’
Jake eyed him; he wasn’t convinced. ‘You’ve been resting all day.’
‘Oh, shut up!’
A car horn sounded behind them. Jake turned further in his seat to look out of the back window. A middle-aged woman sitting in a muddy Land Rover was gesturing for Jake to get a move on.
Jake turned left.
The beak now pointed straight on.
He no longer found it amusing.
Jake kept his eyes peeled for further signs. The houses backed on to the grounds of a house he was all too familiar with. There was a cut-through that led to a locked gate into the grounds of the Rosses’ Scottish holiday home. He hadn’t anticipated that Lark Lodge would be so close.
He hoped to goodness it wasn’t one of the houses towards the end of the road that might have glimpses of The Lake House from its bedroom windows at the back.
Jake followed the signs, taking in the properties as he slowly passed them by. The were all large, all detached, some brick, others rendered, and all with their own substantial secluded gardens up long drives, hidden away from the bustle of tourists and day-trippers in Aviemore, and yet not too far from the amenities the town had to offer. It was the sort of street with the sort of houses where tourists, overcome by the beauty of the place, came to wander and to dream of owning that holiday retreat, that something very special, that something very Scottish.
Jake kept an eye out for the sign.
He was running out of street.
‘I really hope this is not what I think it is.’ He remembered the last house along this road, with its broken porch, peeling paint and rotting windows. When they were kids, up from London for the holidays, he and Marcus had sometimes sneaked into the cellar, daring each other to stay the night in a ‘haunted’ house. It had seemed like a big adventure then; now it just seemed like two rich kids trespassing on some poorer neighbours’ property.
The couple who had owned the rambling wreck had forever been running local kids off their property who had come to do the exact same thing as Jake and Marcus. But they were good people, and in time they’d done the place up a bit, although Jake wondered whether it had fallen back into a bit of a state.
Mr Belafonte had been a well-respected GP in the community. He’d come over with the Windrush Generation and had then adopted Scotland as his home. He’d served the community with such dedication that he’d worked well into retirement. William had been treated by him one Christmas – he’d thought it was a heart attack, but it had turned out it was indigestion; he always overdid it at Christmas dinner.
It hadn’t been Dr or Mrs Belafonte who had sent Jake and Marcus racing for home on the night of that dare. It had been a girl sitting at the top of the cellar steps saying, ‘I see you.’ If anybody had asked them at the time, they would have all sworn blind they had seen a ghost.
What they had found out later was that they had been looking at the couple’s youngest child, a sixteen-year-old girl who, as it turned out, took great delight in scaring little boys hiding fearlessly, or so they thought, in her parents’ cellar.
As the car edged ever-closer to what Jake guessed would be Lark Lodge, his feelings of foreboding grew. He didn’t know what Mr Addison was prepared to put up with in the name of ‘the company’ as he called it, but Jake was on holiday, and he really did not want to spend it in some dive. Yes, the place was old and imposing, in one of the loveliest streets in Aviemore, which should on paper be a good omen, but unlike many of the other properties in this patch that had changed hands over the years, this one, as far as Jake was aware, had remained in the same family. He vaguely recalled that William might have mentioned that the elderly couple had recently passed away, and the property had been left to one of their daughters.
Jake sighed heavily, anticipating a wasted trip. Unless a miracle had happened in the intervening months since he last set foot in this part of the world, Jake expected he would be making a trip back into town to find something halfway decent.
Before he turned the car around, Jake decided to satisfy his curiosity and drive up to the house, for old times’ sake. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as he remembered, and if not, he intended for them to stay. Marcus was in bad shape; he needed to get out of the car and sleep in a proper bed.
Jake reduced his speed to a crawl and kept an eye out for the house. He spotted the last lark stuck on the last remaining tree, pointing up the drive of the last house in the cul de sac.
‘Oh boy, I’m just loving every minute,’ said Jake to the bird.
He approached the drive to the house with trepidation. He had the impulse to turn the car around and stop wasting his time. What stopped him was the level of traffic he had encountered on the way through the town. It was July, and judging by the school-age kids around on a Wednesday afternoon, Jake was guessing they had already broken up for the summer break and parents were putting the week to good use, holidaying in Scotland. Holiday accommodation would be sparse.
Jake made a sharp right turn and nearly collided with a pair of seven-foot-high wrought iron gates that were obscured from the road by the tall hedging that bordered the property. He slammed on the brakes. On the left was a wooden sign announcing Lark Lodge, with a silhouette of a lark and an artistic sketch of the outline of a house. Jake liked the sign. Next, his attention was drawn to the arched gates in front of him. At the top of the gates were the words Lark Lodge , carved out in wrought iron. He didn’t remember this, but then he only had a vague recollection of the grounds.
Jake was about to open the car door and get out when the gates let out a metal clang and slowly edged open – outwards.
Jake swiftly put the car into reverse and backed up.
‘What’s going on?’ Marcus was now sitting up, surveying his surroundings.
Jake ignored him, his attention diverted by the thought of another car swinging into the drive, straight into his reversing behind. When he thought the gates had opened sufficiently to get the car through, Jake drove in. The gates slowly closed behind him.
Taking the winding drive really slowly in case he came across anything else unexpected, Jake noted the well-tended lawn on either side. It was a good sign. He hoped. There were neat flower borders, and a cream table and chair set outside some French doors. Things had certainly changed. He might not remember the grounds too well, but he’d have remembered this.
Jake’s eyes grew wide as Lark Lodge came into view. The house was impressive; the broken shutters and peeling paint were gone, replaced by bright green shutters which beautifully complemented soft cream wooden windows, and re-pointed and sandblasted grey brickwork. From the cellar windows up to the small turrets at the top of the house, it was obvious that the place had been completely restored to its former glory – it looked stunning.
It looked exactly how Jake imagined a building of this age would have looked when it had first been built. The work carried out on the old house must have been extensive. There was only one possible explanation; Dr and Mrs Belafonte, and their old green Bentley, must indeed be gone. Their daughter, who had inherited the place, must have sold it on. He wondered in passing if it was the same teenage girl who had once scared him and Marcus witless.
The drive ended in a large, oval-shaped gravel car parking area in front of the house. Jake drew up alongside the only other car parked outside. He got out and eyed the green Bentley. He looked up at the house and back at the car. Maybe the new owners had bought the car too – it was a beautiful car.
Jake slammed his car door shut and went to open the rear door for Marcus. Jake peered in at him. ‘An amazing transformation, isn’t it?’
Marcus nodded slowly at the house.
Jake remained where he was for a moment, looking at Marcus looking at the house. He wondered what was going through his mind. Jake had a feeling this was going to be a sobering experience for both of them being back in Aviemore.
‘Come on,’ said Jake trying to sound casual, as though it was no big deal to be back. He circled the car to get his bag and Marcus’s suitcase out of the boot.
Jake shut the boot; his hands smarting. He picked up the shoulder straps, put his bag over his shoulder, and grabbed the handle of Marcus’s case. When he looked up, the door was still open. Marcus was still inside the car. Jake sighed. He moved forward and stopped by the open car door to tell Marcus that he didn’t give a toss how ill he was feeling – if didn’t get out of the car straight away, he would be forced to carry his own case up to the house. There were steps. He’d have to lift it.
Marcus got out of the car.
‘Ready?’ said Jake.
Marcus turned his attention to Jake. ‘Wasn’t there somewhere else to stay – in the town centre, perhaps?’
Jake glared at Marcus. He’d driven all the way there, and now Marcus had the audacity to complain about the choice. ‘Why don’t you suggest somewhere then?’
‘I did!’ Marcus threw up his arms.
‘I am not staying at The Lake House.’ Jake was adamant. ‘Besides, we’re here now and …’ Jake turned towards Lark Lodge, ‘it looks quite nice.’ It was quite the understatement. It looked amazing. But would they have vacancies? And if they did, would the proprietor be happy for two guys, one with bandages, the other looking the worse for wear, to stay at their establishment?
Jake heaved a sigh. What do I have to lose? he thought. I’m here now.
On the porch, Jake put his bag down and rang the doorbell. Noticing Marcus wasn’t beside him, he turned round to find Marcus still standing by the car. Jake waved his arm in a will-you-come-on gesture of annoyance.
Behind him, Jake heard the front door open.
An old lady in a stained pinafore greeted him with a slightly bemused expression on her craggy face. ‘May I help you?’ her voice wavered.
‘Mrs Belafonte?’ It couldn’t be. Mrs Belafonte must be ninety by now; how could she run a guesthouse? He thought she’d passed on. But perhaps William had his facts wrong.
‘Yes?’
‘This is Lark Lodge?’
‘Lark Lodge,’ she repeated vaguely.
‘The guesthouse,’ Jake confirmed.
‘Guesthouse?’ She opened the door wide and looked left then right as though she had misplaced something. Then she turned back to Jake, smiled, and shut the door.
‘What the …?’ Jake shook his head. He knew for a fact this was Lark Lodge; it said so on the gates. But this was obviously no guesthouse. Mr Addison had got it wrong. Jake had no option but to pick up his bag, take the suitcase, and return to the car.
‘What, no room at the inn?’ Marcus said with a wide grin.
Jake scowled as he walked past Marcus, depositing the bag and suitcase on the gravel beside the car. He opened the boot and had just lifted the first bag back into the car when he heard footsteps on the gravel. He was just about to tell Marcus to stop larking about and help him out, when a woman’s voice called out. ‘Excuse me … hello …’
Jake moved from behind the open boot to see a middle-aged woman trying to run but instead taking large steps across the gravel towards them. The first thing Jake noticed, and the most striking thing about her, was her hair which was beaded with an assortment of different-coloured plastic beads that flew around her head like a swarm of multicoloured bees as she strode.
‘Excuse me, don’t go,’ she said breathlessly, not slowing down even though she had caught his attention. Jake thought she was going to run straight into Marcus.
‘Whoa!’ Jake held up his hands.
She skidded to a stop as Marcus gingerly took a step back.
The woman was wearing skinny black jeans and a snug-fitting purple cotton shirt with a flower print, which accentuated her figure. The outfit was not complemented, though, by her old-fashioned apron, which was dusty with flour. A streak of flour dusted her left cheek.
She wiped her hand down her apron and held it out to Marcus. ‘I’m Gayle,’ she said cheerfully.
Marcus did not make a move to take her hand.
Jake quickly stepped forward and took her hand instead. ‘I’m Jake.’
She smiled at Jake, her smile fading as she glanced at Marcus.
‘Oh, this is Marcus.’ Jake felt like prodding him in the back, but to Jake’s relief, he reluctantly offered a shaky hand.
She took it, shook once and then turned her attention back to Jake, her smile back on full beam. ‘Would you like a room?’
‘This is Lark Lodge, the guesthouse?’ said Jake. He was confused.
‘Yes. I nearly missed you. I was in the pantry, and you can’t hear a thing in there, not a car turning up or even the doorbell, though god knows, it’s loud enough – the doorbell, that is. Anyway, I was carrying the pot of flour into the kitchen when I thought I heard someone outside on the gravel.’ She beamed. ‘And here you are.’
‘You have rooms available?’ Jake inquired.
Marcus scoffed at the question; by the looks of the deserted driveway, it was obvious they had plenty.
Jake wondered how many other potential guests had been turned away by Mrs Belafonte answering the door.
‘She’s a beauty, isn’t she?’
Jake looked back at Gayle, puzzled by the question.
‘The car.’ She nodded at the green Bentley.
‘Oh, yes,’ Jake readily agreed, although he probably wouldn’t enjoy driving it with no power steering and its old suspension. It was just nostalgia. Jake still preferred the smooth sleek lines of modern cars, the comfy interiors, the easy handling. He looked lovingly at his shiny blue rental and knew he was going to have a hard time handing it back.
‘Do you need a hand with that?’ Gayle offered as Jake heaved his bag back out of the boot for the second time.
She was standing with her hands on her hips, eyeing Marcus disapprovingly.
‘Please.’ Jake’s hands stung, but he was ever the gentleman and handed over Marcus’s suitcase – it was lighter.
They walked side by side to the wooden porch steps. Jake stole a glance over his shoulder – Marcus was following a little way behind, grudgingly.