Читать книгу Where Have All the Boys Gone? - Jenny Colgan - Страница 8

‘You can’t leave me too,’ said Louise, clinging to the toaster as if it were a life preserver (which, given her lack of cooking skills these days – all built up to cater for Max, all immediately abandoned – it was).

‘Yes, that’s what I’m doing,’ said Katie. ‘I’ve been planning this all along. Put the toaster down, I’m running a bath and no longer trust you.’

‘Oh God,’ said Louise, in a tone of voice that Katie recognised was gearing up to start on about the future course of her life, involving loneliness, misery, telly and gradually slipping into obesity brought on by sadness inspired TUC-biscuit blowouts. Louise put on a good face in public, but once they were back in the flat it was a different story.

‘I’m having a bath,’ said Katie heavily. ‘I have a premonition it’s going to be my last one for six months that isn’t shared with goats or something.’

‘Do you want to go?’

‘Durr! No. It was just a stupid whim at the time. Which has come right around to bite me in the arse, because now, do I have a choice? No. Is everything going great guns for me here? Not, as it happens, necessarily.’

‘Things aren’t going that well for me either,’ said Louise, sticking her finger in the Philadelphia.

‘Really? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Where is this place?’

‘It’s on a higher latitude than Moscow.’

‘Is it pretty?’

‘If you like that kind of thing.’

‘What kind of thing?’

‘Lambs. Fresh air. Stink. That kind of thing.’

‘What kind of stink?’

‘It might have been the fresh air. Or some cow thing.’

‘Does it smell worse than the litter bins on Oxford Street on a hot day?’

‘No. It’s in Scotland, not the devil’s anus.’

‘It might be fun.’

‘I’ve been there. It is not fun. It has no cable, no Joseph, no proper coffee, and everyone up there is horrible. I know I moan about the shallowness of London life, but I’ve kind of got used to these staples.’

‘How many people did you meet?’

‘Only one. But there’s only about twelve people there anyway, so it’s a reasonable statistical sample.’

Louise stirred her coffee thoughtfully. ‘When do you have to leave?’

‘Two weeks on Monday. I don’t know if I’ll have time to knit all the waterproofs I’ll have to take.’

‘What’s the job involve?’

‘Trees. Looking after trees. Apparently trees need a PR.’

‘I thought they had Sting.’

‘He’s on tour. Anyway, he only cares about foreign trees.’

‘That’s bigo-tree.’

Katie looked at Louise. ‘That’s the first joke you’ve made in about three months.’

‘That waiter was a joke.’

‘You know, I wonder if you might just be recovering.’

‘Huh. You know, I think it might be really interesting. It’d be great to get out of this cesspit for a while,’ Louise said wistfully.

Katie suddenly had a great idea. ‘Do you know how long it takes to drive up there?’

Louise shook her head.

‘Me neither. Wanna come?’

Packing for three months in March was absolutely not easy. In London, the daffs were out in the public squares, and you could make it on a sunny afternoon with just a cardie. But according to www.middleofnowhere-weather.com, Fairlish still had six inches of snow and a wind-chill factor of minus ten.

Olivia was very grumpy that Louise was going too. She had found it very easy to get leave from her employers, who were still trying to work out if her behaviour at the Christmas party constituted sexual harassment.

‘I can’t believe you’re leaving me alone here, desperately trying to ferret out the last good-looking, rich, kind, straight man in London,’ Olivia wailed.

‘You sent me on this stupid assignment!’ said Katie.

‘Yeah, but I didn’t want you both to go.’

‘I’ll be back in a couple of days!’ said Louise indignantly.

‘But you’re either a biscuit-strewn crumbling mess or under a waiter. You’re no use at all!’

‘Well, that’s nice.’

‘I’m just saying,’ replied Olivia gruffly, ‘good luck – I’ll miss you.’

‘Well, I’ll miss you too,’ said Katie. ‘Along with electric lighting, central heating, comprehensible English, Belgo, sushi, mojitos, movie theatres, wine bars, radio, fajitas…’

‘I’ll get the drinks in,’ interrupted Olivia.

Katie’s Fiat Punto fought a brave fight, but it still took them twelve full hours, much circling around and two full bouts of crying (one and a half Louise’s, one half Katie’s, who felt that red eyes and a crack in the voice wasn’t quite as bad as Louise’s full-on tantrum on the subject of unmarked B roads, leading to an extremely long diatribe on Max’s inability to find his way anywhere which meant he was probably lost in the foothills of the Himalayas, which, Katie had thought, was exactly where she’d like to be right now, a thought she committed the profound error of voicing) to finally limp into Fairlish late that evening.

To Katie’s horror, the Forestry Commission had politely turned down Olivia’s offer to organise their accommodation and said they’d sort something out. Which in practice meant that rather than automatically booking the nicest hotel in the area and billing it to the client, Katie was somewhat at the mercy of…well, the fax she was clasping in her hand. It didn’t say anything along the lines of ‘Gleneagles’. It didn’t say anything along the lines of ‘hotel’. It said, ‘4 Water Lane. Do not arrive after 8 p.m.’.

It was 11.30 p.m. The last time they’d got out of the car, near Killiemuir, it had been so cold, Louise’s sobs had frozen in her throat. It had hurt to breathe.

The darkness was almost complete. Louise was looking out of the window, failing to spot a single road sign, whining, ‘I can’t see a thing.’

Katie was trying her best to be patient, but it was like travelling all day with a six-year-old.

‘Well, look harder. I’m just concentrating on trying not to run over any more squirrels or rats or badgers or hedgehogs or deer, OK?’

‘No need to get snitty,’ said Louise. ‘It’s not my fault you forgot to pack the night-vision goggles.’

Without warning, the Fiat dropped into a huge puddle of freezing water. The girls both screamed. Katie somehow managed to push the car on through before it stalled, and they came to a shuddering halt. They looked at each other, neither wanting to get out in the cold.

‘Where’s the torch?’ asked Louise, finally.

Katie looked at her soaking wet feet. ‘Um, I didn’t bring one.’

‘What did your dad say about driving at night without a torch?’

‘I don’t have a dad.’

‘Oh, yes, bring that up now we’re trapped in a flood in the middle of nowhere.’

Gingerly, Katie opened the door. There was definitely water running under their feet. ‘Bollocks,’ she said.

Louise gasped sharply.

‘What?’

‘There’s a light…over there.’

Sure enough, a tiny light could be seen bobbing up and down towards them.

‘Do you think it’s a rescue boat?’

‘Uh, yeah,’ said Katie, whose first thought had, in actual fact, been that it was aliens.

‘Hellaooowww!’ screeched Louise. ‘Carn you come and help us, pleayse!’

‘Could you sound a little less like the Duke of Edinburgh?’ hissed Katie. ‘Haven’t you seen An American Werewolf in London?’

‘Cooeee!’ shouted Louise.

‘What the MANKIN HELL…’ a strident voice, closely followed by the beam of a torch and an equally visible bosom, strode out of the darkness ‘…do you think you’re doing?’

An imperious nose followed the bosom, along with an expression that looked far from the welcoming Scots of tradition, with two eyebrows that wouldn’t have been entirely out of place on an old Labour minister.

Katie and Louise immediately splashed to attention.

The woman sized them up and down. ‘And you are?’

‘We’re looking for number 4 Water Lane,’ said Katie, in her best well-brought-up voice.

‘D’you think this might be Water Lane?’ said the woman, staring pointedly at their shoes.

‘Is that a yes or a no?’ replied Katie. Playing humorous word games with Attila the Bun would be all well and good if they weren’t on the brink of hypothermia.

The woman sniffed in a manner that implied that yes, it obviously was, surely even to the educationally sub-rate specimens in front of her. ‘You’ll be the London girls then.’

Katie and Louise swapped glances.

‘I thought it was quite clear that you were expected before 8.30?’ she continued.

‘It took us a while to get here. From London,’ said Katie.

‘Really? Is it far? Maybe you had to stop for cocktails and to buy some shoes on the way.’

If she hadn’t been so very, very wet and very, very tired, Katie would simply have turned around and driven all the way back home.

Number 4 Water Lane was not, as the girls had fantasised for the last two hundred miles, a tartan-festooned haven of horseshoe antiques, a stag’s head or two and a blazing open fire. It was an enormous house, shrouded in almost complete darkness, with creaks and peculiar noises emanating from different corners. It was freezing – ‘heating and hot water 7–8. Breakfast 7–8’ read the sign on the wall that Attila, whose name was in fact Mrs McClockerty, had pointed out, leading them to ponder the invention of time travel as she led them through endless gloomy corridors, pointing out a terrifyingly pristine, antimacassared floral monstrosity called the ‘residents’ lounge’. They appeared to have been billeted in the old servants’ quarters, directly under the eaves. Fortunately the lighting was terrible: Katie was sure there were cobwebs and God knew what else in the corners. The beds were single, and both mattresses and blankets were painfully thin.

‘I need the toilet,’ whimpered Louise from her bed after they’d put the light out.

‘It’s down the hall,’ whispered back Katie.

‘I’m too frightened.’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’

‘Katie?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you sure we haven’t been kidnapped by white slavers and sold into service?’

‘Ssh!’

There was a short pause. ‘Have you seen that film The Others?’

‘NO!’

‘Gaslight?’

‘Goodnight Louise.’

‘Amityville?’

‘If you wet the bed, I’m telling Mrs McClockerty.’

There was a pause, then a rustle. Katie stiffened. Sure enough, the covers on her bed were being pulled back.

‘Louise!’

‘Please!’

‘Well, no funny stuff, OK?’

‘I would never fancy you even if I was gay,’ said Louise loftily. ‘I’d fancy that bird from Location Location Location.’ And, despite her avowed terrors and full bladder, she immediately fell fast asleep.

Katie wriggled a little to try to get comfortable, but it was no use. Grateful for the warm body beside her, she lay staring into the dark as the clock ticked away until morning.

Getting up the next morning proved near impossible – the room was icy and so huge that getting to their clothes seemed an epic journey, never mind the arduous trek to the bathroom. Only by holding hands, closing their eyes and shouting ‘bacon and eggs!’ could they inch their way forwards into the frigid air.

Sadly, bacon and eggs weren’t exactly forthcoming.

‘It’s continental breakfast,’ announced Mrs Mc-Clockerty, as if what is delicious-freshly-made-in-a-patisserie-under-a-heartwarming-early-Mediterranean-sun was in any way a comparable experience to the dried-out pieces of toast studded on the tray before them while the wind audibly howled around the house.

‘Two pieces only!’ she barked.

There were three other people in the dining room, all men, sitting on their own.

‘Perhaps it’s a lonely murderers’ convention,’ suggested Louise, trying in vain to warm her hands on the coffee pot.

‘It holds up Olivia’s male-female ratio theory,’ said Katie, inhaling her tea greedily. Before they’d left, Olivia had pointed out that seeing as the main industries in the region were farming, fishing, forestry and a large research centre down the road, they might be in with a bit of luck totty-wise. Although studying their fellow inmates, Katie wasn’t entirely heartened by what was on offer. One of the men was dropping crumbs all over his Aberdeen Evening Post, another was unselfconsciously exploring the inside of his nose. At the far end, Mrs McClockerty was surveying the room in silence, making sure nobody took more than the requisite number of condiments.

‘So, are we going home today?’ asked Louise brightly. ‘’Course we are!’

Katie grimaced. ‘I think I’m going to have to at least look at this job thing. Otherwise Livvy will have my farts for parts.’

‘Surely not,’ said Louise. ‘She won’t mind. This place is cruel and unusual.’

Outside, rain was throwing itself against the window as if it were trying to get their attention. Katie looked at her watch. Eight thirty.

‘I’m going to have to go,’ she said apologetically.

‘OK, I’ll get the car started,’ said Louise.

‘You’re not coming!’

Louise looked taken aback. ‘Of course I am.’

‘Of course you’re not. This is my job. I’m not walking in there like Jennifer Lopez with an entourage. They already hate me.’

‘Do they know it’s you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do they know it’s you? The person who already got turned down for the job?’

‘I did not get turned down for the job! I…declined.’

‘What? They offered it to you and you turned it down?’

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘By default?’

‘That’s a manner of speaking.’

‘Well, what am I going to do all day?’

‘You should have thought of that,’ said Katie sternly, ‘before you started with the “Ooh, please can I come, boo hoo hoo, blah blah”.’

Louise gave her a look.

‘OK, everyone out!’ said Mrs McClockerty. The men started shifting around, collecting his papers untidily together, in one case, and wiping his finger surreptitiously under the table in another.

Mrs McClockerty came and stood so her bosom loomed over their heads, blocking out all light. ‘You must exit the premises until 6 o’clock. This isn’t a hotel, you know.’

‘It is a hotel!’ said Katie.

‘It’s a boarding house,’ said Mrs McClockerty, as if Katie had sworn at her. The girls waited for further elucidation as to what the difference was, but none was forthcoming. The bosom swayed towards the door and vanished into the endless bowels of the house.

‘Can I hide under the seat of the car while you’re at work?’ asked Louise desperately.

‘No! You have to go explore.’

There was a pause. ‘Can I have the umbrella?’ asked Louise.

‘I forgot it,’ said Katie in a very quiet voice.

‘You forgot an umbrella when coming to the Highlands of Scotland?’ said Louise in an even quieter voice.

‘Yes,’ said Katie.

Louise sat very still for a minute. Then she stood up, slowly. ‘I will see you,’ she announced, ‘at 6 p.m.’ Then she picked up her coat, still wet from the night before, and, with a great sense of purpose and wounded pride, walked out of the big old-fashioned door. Katie watched her go for a moment, feeling guilty, then feeling annoyed that she spent so much of her life feeling guilty.

Mrs McClockerty poked her head around the door and looked pointedly at the brass clock on the wall. It was 8.40. Katie jumped up, guiltily.