In truth, all three know that itisa bit bonkers to absent themselves five days before Christmas. Yet at this precise moment each woman believes that it might possibly be the best thing she has ever done.
9
Although none of the women are true Londoners, over three decades the bustle and noise has seeped into their bones, and they are immune to it. To Lena, even her Manchester suburb feels subdued in comparison when she visits home. But not like this. The wildness of the empty landscape seems to catch in her throat. They fall silent as all around them are purplish hills, swooping down into valleys where rivers meander and fields are dotted by sheep. In the distance, a sliver of water gleams in the fading light. Further away still, craggy outlines of mountains are dusted with snow.
‘Justlookat this,’ Lena breathes finally.
‘I know. It’s incredible,’ Shelley exclaims, face close to the window. ‘Can we stop and take photos?’
‘I think we should press on,’ Pearl replies. A confident driver back home, she is unfazed by driver aggression as she zips to jobs with her make-up kit stashed on her ageing Mini’s backseat. There is no driver aggression here. Just the sudden squawk of a bird – a crow maybe, or a hawk? They have no idea. The only birds they notice in London are pigeons. But mostly, there is just silence as Pearl drives with the intense concentration of sittingher test. They have left the main road for a single-track lane with passing places. It twists and turns, weaving its way through thick dark forests. Dusk has fallen rapidly and by four-thirty it is properly dark, the moon a low hanging bauble in the inky sky.
They pass through a village of huddled stone cottages, crammed right at the roadside, lights glowing invitingly inside. There’s a rickety-looking wooden village hall, all in darkness, and a red phone box. A tiny village shop looks as if it has already shut for the day. There’s not a soul to be seen.
Now Michael’s directions lead them onto a bumpy unmade road where they climb sharply upwards. To their left is what appears to be a sheer drop, with no fence or barrier. Just a steep wooded hillside and the loch far below, shimmering in the moonlight. ‘We must be pretty close,’ Pearl announces, relieved as the road levels out, cutting across what appears to be bumpy heather-covered ground. She picks up speed, but then slows abruptly. Being able to navigate the North Circular has not prepared Pearl for sheep blocking the road.
At a halt now, she looks round at her friends. ‘What are we meant to do?’
‘Let’s just wait,’ Lena suggests. Three plump sheep watch them with interest, showing no sign of moving on.
‘Shall we… shoo them away?’ Shelley suggests, although she doesn’t fancy confronting them herself. She’s hoping Pearl or Lena will do it.
‘They’ll move soon,’ Lena says with authority. But they don’t move, and no other traffic comes. ‘Beep the horn,’ she commands, but Pearl won’t do that.
‘It might scare them.’
‘No, it’ll just make them move!’ Lena remembers how Pearl and Dean’s enormous tabby cat, Albie, had reigned over their home, appropriating a velvet armchair as his throne. Pearlwould refuse to move him, even when a human wanted to sit there.
Shelley lowers the back window and juts out her head, gasping as the bitingly cold air hits her face. ‘Move along please!’ she calls out. No one does anything she asks at home, so why is she expecting a better result here? ‘Pearl, you’re the country person,’ she announces. ‘Jump out and move them.’
Pearl splutters. ‘We had guinea pigs, Shell. You think I grew up on a farm?’
‘Rev the engine then,’ Shelley urges her. So Pearl revs and Shelley shouts some more from the window and Lena tries to google ‘What to do with sheep on the road’ – but there’s no signal. Then headlights appear in the distance, growing brighter as the vehicle approaches. It’s a jeep, they can see now. It stops and a man climbs out and suddenly the sheep scatter, tumbling away into the darkness.
The man seems to regard their car with suspicion, as if they have contravened some country code. He comes around to the driver’s side and Pearl lowers the window. ‘Hi!’ She affects polite brightness as if she has pulled into a drive-thru Costa.
‘You all right there?’ The man tips his head and frowns.
‘Er, yes,’ she starts. ‘We’re just looking for Shore Cottage…’
‘Michael’s place?’
He has a neat dark beard and a thick woollen hat pulled low. With a nod, he indicates to the right. ‘You’re right at it.’Obviously,his tone says.
‘Oh,’ Pearl exclaims, registering the narrow track now, and a small wooden sign, low to the ground and barely visible – let alone legible – in the dark. ‘Thank yousomuch,’ she gushes. With a shrug he saunters back to his jeep and waits for Pearl to turn into the track.
‘We didn’t need to pass the sheep.’ Shelley grins.
‘D’you think we seemed like locals?’ Pearl chuckles, her shoulders unclenching as the bumpy track curves around to a parking area surrounded by what seems like an extensive garden. And there it is: a sizeable pale blue cottage perched a little way above the water, illuminated by a single outside light above the front door. Shore Cottage isn’t on a coastal shore, but on that of the loch. And now the door opens and a black and white collie bounds out. Then Michael appears; a tall and fit-looking late-forties man with broad shoulders and tousled wavy hair.
‘Hi, Michael!’ Pearl climbs out and he beams at her, and they hug.
‘Great to see you, Pearl. Journey okay?’
‘Yes, easy,’ she says breezily. She pulls back, filled with warmth at seeing him again after so long. Pearl’s village childhood was so uneventful, dominated by church fetes and her mother’s talk of the bowling club, that visits from Michael’s family always felt like a treat. Her mother would launch into vol au vent production on an industrial scale, and as the adults settled with gin and tonics, she was always happy to take Michael out to play.
Introductions follow as Lena and Shelley climb out of the car. Although friendly, he seems to switch into a more businesslike mode, as if greeting regular B&B guests. ‘Good to meet you,’ he says. There are handshakes now, rather than hugs, and Pearl reminds herself that they are not in huggy London now. On make-up jobs no one seems to greet anyone with less than a full-on embrace. ‘Here, let me take those bags,’ he says, reaching for their cases.
‘No, we’re fine, honestly,’ Lena insists.
