‘I didn’t fall in the water and I saw a seal,’ I tell Patty as I sit down. ‘Today will be a good day.’
‘And this funny square sausage is delicious, so I absolutely agree,’ she replies waving a slice at me.
The hotel packs us some sandwiches for our trek and so with more food than an Everest expedition would most likely consume, we set off for the woodland. It’s a fairly straightforward path to begin with and we meet lots of friendly people walking their dogs.
‘I feel a bit overdressed in all this gear with the hiking poles,’ says Patty and I nod in agreement. So far this walk doesn’t feel much of a treasure trail and I hope Dad hasn’t got it wrong.
After a couple of miles, the path becomes very narrow and enters the woods proper. The dark pines tower over us blocking out the light and making the forest rather eerie. I stop to take a drink of water then freeze as I hear a rustle and something snapping. Patty hears it, too, and holds out her hand to tell me to stand still. It happens again and it’s getting closer. Patty quietly moves to stand behind me – typical.
Then suddenly the rustling sound is in front of us, the lower branches of a tree start shaking and as we shriek and cower, out runs a terrified little fawn. We jump nonetheless and Patty instinctively pushes me towards it.
‘Thanks a lot,’ I tell her when the ‘danger’ is over. ‘I know where I’d stand if we were ever held hostage. With that deer and the seal this morning, I’m beginning to feel like a Scottish Doctor Dolittle.’
We continue through the wood until it opens up dramatically to reveal a huge gorge and waterfall.
‘Wow,’ says Patty, ‘this is stunning.’
The ravine must be hundreds of feet deep with a single plume of water gushing through it. A rainbow shines through and the effect is just magical. We could stand here for ever just captivated by it but we need to get moving. Away from the ravine we go back into the woods and then cross a river. This is starting to feel more like the adventure we thought we’d be having. You can only get here on foot so the Americans wouldn’t be seeing all this if they’d just taken a standard package trip. I feel a surge of pride that Mercury might just be back on track. There is sunlight breaking through to the rocks on the opposite side of the river, so Patty suggests we have a break. Gladly I take off my rucksack and lie back using it as a pillow. Patty gets out the thermos and pours us a tea, then unpacks the picnic. She laughs and I turn my head to see her holding up a Farm Kitchen fruitcake provided by the hotel.
‘I can’t escape these things can I?’
‘I hear they’re very moist, though.’
‘Don’t know who told you that.’
After topping up our energy levels we start moving again, and reach a small loch. I check my map and the instructions from Dad.
‘We can’t be that far away now,’ I tell the now rosy-cheeked Patty.
I don’t know what I’m expecting to do when I get there. A treasure trail should have some reward when you hit the spot. I guess we’ll see what the place is like first.
The map shows the library in a clearing just beyond the woodland boundary. Through the trees I can see that the grass changes from the dark of the forest to the golden of moorland in a few hundred yards; we’re moments away from our target.
I have no idea why but I start walking more stealthily like a hunter on the trail of his quarry. Patty notices and does the same. We’re a two-trees-width away from the clearing and we bob slowly from one tree to the other, stopping to check we’re not being watched. What am I expecting? To actually see the seven dwarves? It’s that kind of place, honestly it is. Happy that we haven’t been spotted by any pint-sized characters on their way to work, we move out into the clearing and there it stands – the library in the woods.
If the dwarves were real, they’d live here. I can’t help smiling at the glory of this beautiful little place. The wooden shack with its grass roof looks just like a prop from a Disney film and it’s simply magical, even more so because it’s a library. We approach the back of the building and then skirt either side of it, ducking underneath the two little windows at the front. I bob up to take a peek: it’s empty.
We head inside the magical log cabin with its tufty grass roof. Inside there are books to swap and read; on every surface there are pictures drawn by children of the woods and the waterfalls. How wonderful that someone built this, and how glorious that my dad found it for our treasure trail.
Shelves of books cover two sides of the room; all the classics are here: Moby Dick, Treasure Island, Swallows and Amazons and so many others that just transport you back to your childhood. The air is calm and filled with the smell of pine and paper. In the centre of the room there’s a desk and some chairs. How wonderful it would be to camp here overnight, reading by candlelight with the woodland creaking and coming to life outside. On the walls are pictures drawn by the children who have visited here, while the adults have left their thoughts in the visitors’ book. I read through some of the comments, people from all around the world expressing their wonder and enchantment with the place. We’ve come to put a book on the shelves, the book that contains the clue to where our customers go next. I wasn’t sure whether guests would be able to find it but now I know it’ll stick out like Patty in a nunnery. I’ve brought a Haynes manual for building and repairing NASA’s Mercury spacecraft. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to take it away and I think the guests will spot it straight away. The clue is written on the inside back cover. I wedge the book into the bottom shelf between Jane Eyre and Robinson Crusoe. At least it’s in good company. I want to do more.
‘We have to think of something that marks our guests finding this place,’ I tell Patty.
‘Could they maybe sign the copy of Treasure Island ? They can’t really take anything as a souvenir, can they?’
‘No it would be wrong to take from this place,’ I reply. ‘Maybe they should leave something.’
‘They leave a coin and make a wish,’ says Patty, pointing to the donations box.
‘That sounds absolutely perfect,’ I reply and we both do just that.
Reluctantly we leave this wonderful place and start the long trek back.
The Heat Is On
The journey back from the library was as dramatic as the trip out with boulders to scramble and gorges to climb. We’re grubby, sweaty and tired by the time we get back to the hotel but still glowing with the wonderment inspired by the little library. I still can’t believe someone actually chose to build it there but I’m glad they did.
Despite being exhausted, we’re going to join in the festivities kicking off in the bar tonight. We can hear the bands starting to set up for the session, so I very much doubt we’d get any sleep if we didn’t go along. I shower first and lie in my pyjamas having forty winks while Patty heads for the bathroom – if I were one of our American guests, this would be a power nap, which sounds far more purposeful than forty winks. Either way, I manage a good half-hour of nod and when I open my eyes, I see the clock ticking on to the appointed hour and I can make my Skype call to Michael. It’s funny how I knew to wake up at this precise moment. Eventually, his face appears on the screen and I can’t help breaking out into a wide smile, it’s so good to see him. The fact that it’s only on my tablet makes his absence even more apparent – I can’t reach out and hug a virtual man.
‘Hello gorgeous,’ he says blowing me a kiss, ‘how’s it going?’
I explain our wonderful day just as Patty emerges wrapped in a towel. ‘Would you like to see my white bits Michael,’ she calls out, pushing her face into the camera.
‘I doubt you’re getting a tan in Scotland in September,’ replies Michael.
‘I’m not – all my bits are white,’ she guffaws and I push her out of the way.
I ask Michael to tell us how it’s going and he turns the tablet round so I can see the resort and the work in progress.
‘Wow, that’s even better than I remember from Charlie’s photos.’
‘It’s fabulous Ange and as soon as I saw it I knew you’d made the right decision. When you start selling weddings out here, everyone’s going to want one.’
‘Is the building going well?’
‘I did need to be here but now I’m cracking the whip we’ll get there. Lucille is brilliant – she has the workforce wrapped around her little finger.’
I bristle a little at the mention of her name but resist saying anything: I trust this man. Just then a boom of drums and bass guitar rocks the room.
‘What on earth was that?’ asks Michael.
‘We’ve arrived during a music festival – I guess that’s the soundcheck starting.’
‘Good luck keeping Patty off the stage.’
Patty appears dressed for the evening and yells, ‘She’s got no chance – I’ve been practising my Sheena Easton all day.’
I shake my head and blow Michael a goodbye kiss. He tells me he’s off to phone Charlie with the update and I’m relieved we have nothing to worry about. Michael was right to go out there, but it’s strange to think of us so many miles apart yet still gazing out on a place of stunning natural beauty, a place we’re only visiting because of Mercury. And nevertheless we’re able to see each other with a little screen – all quite amazing really. When I think back to those postcards and photos in Patty’s house, they were once the only way we could share travel experiences. Now we can virtually be there with each other.
‘Come on missus – get your gladrags on,’ says Patty. ‘Ooh there’s an idea: “Gladrags and Bags” – did anyone Scottish sing that?’
‘It’s “Handbags and Gladrags” and yes, Rod Stewart did a version.’
‘Now you’re talking.’
She launches into a version of ‘Hot Legs’, prompting me to get dressed quickly just to shut her up and get out of the room.
Rab is in the bar with a group of friends, he asks us to join him and Patty accepts before I have the chance to tell him we’ve had a long day and need a quiet night. I guess Patty has no intention of having any such thing.
The banter is good, and as the wine and food flow, the music seems to get even better and we start to get in the mood. The final band are rather good folk musicians who get the audience up dancing.
‘Come on ladies, time to strip the willow.’
Which, it turns out, is a dance. Rab teaches us the moves; they start out rather sedate but before long we’re all whirling each other round in a jig and panting for breath. Never mind all those marathons – Mo Farah should try Scottish country dancing – it’s exhausting.
I beg to leave the furore and sit down soaked with sweat. I must have burned off so many calories today I can probably justify opening the Starburst, on the way back. The band eventually says goodbye and our group rejoins the table bringing liquid refreshment with them.
‘You’re quite a mover,’ Rab tells Patty.
‘Oh I’m quite the all-round entertainer,’ she replies, patting the back of her head. ‘I was on the cruise ships, you know.’
‘Fabulous, well if you sing, there’s an open-mic section next.’
Patty perks up and looks at me as if asking for permission.
‘Don’t look to me for approval,’ I say. ‘You know you’ll do it anyway.’
‘What should I do? I don’t know any Scottish songs,’ she asks.
‘Och, you can’t go wrong with a bit of “Sailing”,’ Rab tells her, ‘this crowd’ll be carrying you along in no time. Everyone knows the words.’
So that’s precisely what she does. When the open-mic session starts, everyone interested has to write their name and the song they’ll be singing on the blackboard (Patty put her name right under ‘the catch of the day’ – it amused her greatly). After a ragtag of singers, some good and some awful, the compère eventually calls out ‘Patty’ and we all holler her on to the stage. ‘Sailing’ goes down a storm – I don’t think Patty actually knows any of the words but it doesn’t matter, Rab was right – everyone else does. Jumpers are waved in the air like flags then people stand up linking arms and swaying together. How wonderful it must feel to write a song that makes everyone so happy for years to come. After singing this, Patty gets an encore from the rosy-cheeked crowd. Of course she can’t resist and as her pièce de résistance she leads the revellers in a rowdy chorus of that other Rod Stewart classic, ‘Do You Think I’m Sexy?’
It had to happen and within minutes the makeshift stage is full of men pouting, thrusting their hips and flashing an off-the-shoulder look.
‘She has a lot to answer for,’ says Rab sitting with me watching the frenzy unfold.
‘She usually does,’ I reply, wondering if sitting behind a desk at Mercury is ever going to keep her happy.
Suddenly she stops singing but you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t watching her as the rest of her ‘backing singers’ onstage keep going. She seems to be looking at something, working it out. I try to follow her line of vision and I see what she’s seen at the exact moment she works it out.
‘Angie, it’s him,’ she yells from the stage and dismounts it in a single leap.
Every hair on my body stands up and my head rocks with disbelief. I cannot process what I’m seeing but I am seeing it. It’s him. He’s bearded, in sunglasses and wearing a completely out-of-place trilby, but there he is bold as brass. It’s Lorenzo. I knew he’d left his passport when he ran off so he couldn’t leave the UK, but to end up here? Right now? He probably thinks a small island is a safe bet for a fugitive. He certainly looks relaxed: he’s standing chatting to one of the bands looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. He’s obviously completely unaware that Patty and I are in the same room. I don’t know what to do. Should I approach him? Should I call the police? What if it’s just his Scottish double? No, I’m sure it’s him. Then he does it, the act that stops me thinking rationally and turns me into a lioness ready to take down my prey. He gets out my pen. My award winner’s pen – the one I gave him in good faith that we could work alongside each other as respectful competitors. The one I want back right now.
Stealthlike but with my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure it drowns out the drums, I sneak up to the group and when I get close enough I shove him and shout:
‘Give me back my pen you swine.’
Well, I meant it to be a shout but it comes out as a croak. I really must work on my lioness cries. Nevertheless, the band members look shocked and move aside, but Lorenzo just stands there, hands raised.
‘Woah, crazy lady, I think you’ve got the wrong person.’
‘Is this the ex you’ve come up here to get away from Laurie – or her mother anyway?’ laughs one of the band members.
‘So it’s Laurie now, is it? Not Lorenzo and certainly not Larry from Wolverhampton.’
He looks at the band members spinning his finger in a circle at the side of his head to suggest my craziness and then turns his back on me. Patty and Rab reach me as he does this, which is just as well because I’m seething now and I have a growing urge to start punching him.
‘What’s going on?’ asks Rab.
‘This man’ – I try to calm myself down – ‘is wanted in connection with fraud. He robbed people of their holiday money. He stole thousands from them and just ran away like the big fat coward he is.’
‘She’s got the wrong person,’ Lorenzo says to Rab, ‘and if she doesn’t stop making accusations, I’m going to call the police.’
‘No need,’ replies Rab. ‘I’m here already.’ Rab takes his badge from his pocket.
The joy on my face is matched in an equal and opposite way on Lorenzo’s. He starts to move towards the door.
‘I’m not staying for any of this bullshit,’ he says but Rab grabs him.
‘Hold on, hold on,’ he tells him. ‘Let’s just get the story straight and then you can go. If these ladies have besmirched your good name then they can enjoy the hospitality of the local nick. Don’t worry, I’ll see to that.’
‘I’m too beautiful fo
r prison,’ murmurs Patty in the background.
Rab keeps one hand on Lorenzo and asks one of his friends to take details and check them on the system. After a few minutes, his friend returns and whispers something in his ear.
‘A travel agency called Launch, was it?’ Rab asks me and I nod. ‘Lorenzo alias Larry Maxwell?’
Again I nod. Rab’s friend opens the picture that he’s had sent to his phone and holds it against so-called Laurie. Rab takes the sunglasses and hat off Lorenzo, then compares it again.
‘Think they got you, mate.’
The band members apologise to me and offer to buy us drinks. Apparently Lorenzo had just offered to manage them and they were about to hand over some money to secure some recording studio time. I have to admire the guy – I mean he has absolutely no scruples. At one stage I thought the whole debacle with Launch might have been an honest mistake – he was simply out of his depth. It turns out being this type of low life is his calling in life.
Rab calls the local branch and when the police car arrives, they escort Lorenzo into the back seat. Rab asks me if I want to go with them to press charges. I hesitate and try to work out if he’s actually committed any crime against me, but aside from being smarmy I don’t think he has. I shake my head. ‘No, we can deal with his offence against me right here,’ I say, heading to the car door holding out my hand. ‘I want my pen back.’
The Heat Is On Page 23
