The Northern Lights Lodge

by Julie Caplin

  ‘No,’ said Alex, laughing at Hekla’s pouting face. Lucy could have kissed her for the timely interjection. Where had her sudden misery come from? She lifted her chin, quickly schooling her features to hide the brief lapse of her game face.

  ‘Er, Lucy,’ said Hekla with a worried expression, ‘We have a booking arriving next week.’

  ‘And?’ They were a hotel after all, bookings were what they wanted.

  ‘It was made directly with Mr Pedersen and I don’t have any details. No names. Nothing. But it’s a complimentary.’

  She noticed Alex looking intrigued and again wondered why a barman was hanging around the office or taking such a keen interest in things.

  ‘Ah, that is odd. Are they VIPs we need to impress? Relations of Mr Pedersen?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s for five rooms.’

  ‘Five.’ Her tongue flicked automatically to the sore on her lip. That was a lot of rooms to give away for free. What was going on?

  ‘All it says on the original email is that they are media.’ Hekla looked up, a happier expression on her face. ‘I think they might be press or something.’

  ‘Press?’

  OK, she could handle that. Being so close to the BBC and ITV as well as two premier league football clubs in Manchester, she was used to dealing with journalists, celebrities and footballers on a regular basis.

  ‘English press. A film crew.’

  Oh shit! Automatically her hand went to her lip and she began to pick at it.

  ‘You OK?’ asked Alex, concern etching his eyes. Stepping toward Lucy, making her catch her breath, he briefly brushed his fingers over her wrist. ‘Don’t, you’ll make it worse.’

  She pulled her hand away already tasting the tang of blood in her mouth. It was a bad habit she’d got into.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked again.

  ‘Yes. Yes. I’m fine,’ said Lucy conscious that the blood had drained from her face and her heart rate had sky rocketed and everything about her was probably screaming NO!

  She wasn’t fine at all and at that precise moment, she couldn’t have said whether that was the unexpected effect of Alex’s gentle touch or the prospect of a film crew arriving.

  She took a calming breath. She was being stupid. It wasn’t as if the film crew would be filming the staff. They probably wouldn’t pay any attention to them. No one was going to recognise her.

  Chapter 8

  When Lucy woke, anxiety immediately clutching at her thoughts, she lay staring out of the window at the cloud filled sky. Although it was still dark, there was an odd light to the sky. Maybe she’d stay here today, study the clouds and give into the heaviness of her body. Even though she’d been here for nearly two weeks now, it was taking her time to get up to speed. The frequent turnaround of previous managers meant that so much had been left undone. This morning just lifting the duvet seemed an effort. Minutes ticked by, turning into ten, then twenty. She squinted through the glass, was that a snowflake?

  Was that why the clouds looked different today, they were full of snow? She tracked the progress of a few leisurely snowflakes, watching their gentle wayward descent. The familiar prick of childish excitement nudged at her making her wince. One upon a time the first magical sight of snow would have had her dragging her wellies on, wrapping up like a Sherpa, desperate to be out there, but the dark slush of city snow had cured her of that fantasy.

  Sighing, she forced her stiff body to roll over, sliding her legs out of the bed and moving into a sitting position. She had to get up. She needed this job. She was being ridiculous. The film crew wouldn’t be interested in her. They’d be filming the sights, using the hotel as a base. She was being ridiculous. Repeating the words over and over, like a litany, she dragged herself into the shower.

  Once she was dressed, she left her room and as she crossed through the communal area of the staff quarters on her way to the office, a loud cry accosted her.

  ‘Lucy, Lucy,’ called Hekla, with her usual boundless enthusiasm.

  ‘Morning,’ she said stiffly, conscious of the other girl’s glowing skin and shining eyes, contrasting with her own dull complexion and purpled shadowed bags.

  ‘Come, come,’ she said linking her arm through Lucy’s. ‘I want to show you my favourite thing. Well,’ she amended, ‘one of my favourite things.’ Dragging her along like a rampant St Bernard on a rescue mission, Hekla led her from the staff area back to the main hotel.

  Helpless to resist all that enthusiasm, Lucy allowed herself to be propelled along without complaint to the long glass corridor connecting the two buildings.

  Hekla stopped dead, her head tipped back and her arms stretched out wide, almost touching the glass on either side of her. ‘It feels like you’re outside, but you’re not.’ She grinned at Lucy with child-like delight, her arms flapping up and down as if she were making snow angels. ‘Look.’

  Outside the snow which lit up the twilit sky, had started falling in earnest with huge flakes floating down like feathers settling on a gentle breeze. In a slow waltz, they danced and whirled, swirling around the glass structure like delicate ballerinas, almost hitting the glass and then at the last second spinning away as if teasing death before they escaped. Entranced Lucy’s looked up through the glass ceiling, the sight almost dizzying, as the concentration of layer up on layer of flakes seemed to be coming down in never-ending torrent strings.

  It was like being in an inside out snow globe, she thought, as those less fortunate flakes, doomed to an early eclipse, hit the glass with tiny pfft, pfft sounds, as the ice crystals splatted against the surface.

  ‘I’ve never seen such huge snowflakes,’ said Lucy in sheer wonderment, as she followed the path of one which she could have sworn was the same size as her hand.

  ‘Hundslappadrifa,’ beamed Hekla. ‘We have a name for this type of snow. In translation it means dog’s feet snow.’

  Lucy clapped her hands in delight. It was the most perfect description. ‘I love that. Although, I guess we won’t be able to go to Hvolsvöllur this morning.’ The snow had settled fast in the last half hour, a good inch already rounding off the edges of the fences and rooflines outside. She’d been looking forward to getting out of the hotel and seeing a bit of Iceland, even if it was only the nearest town twenty minutes away.

  ‘Of course we will,’ said Hekla. ‘In Iceland, snow doesn’t stop us. Petta reddast.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  Hekla grinned. ‘I’ll tell you in the jeep on the way.’

  Buckled in, cocooned in the warm fug of the car, they drove along the straight road towards the lights of the town glowing in the distance like a beacon.

  ‘Will we be alright?’ asked Lucy dubiously looking at the thickening layer of snow which was building quickly.

  ‘Ja,’ said Hekla, with blithe confidence patting the steering wheel. ‘This baby will get us there and back with no problems.’

  ‘At home, everything would have ground to halt already,’ observed Lucy, thinking of last winter and the mass influx of snow-clad travellers turning up at the hotel in Manchester unable to get home.

  ‘Ha, this is Iceland. We’re made of strong stuff. Like I said before, petta reddast, it’s a saying we have. Everything will be OK. Living here, we have a belief that we can do things. There is always something to face, the storms, floods, snowfall, ice and volcanoes. It is the land of heat and fire, but we Icelanders, we can do great things. We have self-belief. Remember our football team,’ she turned with a sly smile haunting her mouth. ‘We beat the English, a small team from a country of 340,000 people. Our manger was a part-time dentist.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Lucy dryly, thinking back to Chris’s cocky pre-match dismissive attitude to the threat of the Icelandic team and his irate howls at the television during the match when Iceland scored two goals to England’s one.

  ‘It is a positive attitude,’ she cast an arm towards the scene outside. ‘It is hard living here, you have to survive. The Vikings that cam
e here from Europe had to carve out a life. It breeds a toughness but also a team spirit. Together we can make things happen. For example, Elin, believes that she will write and publish her book, Freya will be a great actress one day and Brynja trains for the marathon. All of them believe that they will succeed.’

  ‘And what about you?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘One day I will travel. As a child I went to many places with my parents but I want to do what you’ve done, travel to a new country and work in a good hotel.’ Hekla grinned. ‘But I want to make The Northern Lights Lodge, the best hotel before I leave. I’ve lived in many places but this is the place that feels like home. I want people who come here to see how wonderful my country is. I want them to remember their stay here for ever.’

  ‘You and me both,’ said Lucy. ‘I hope you don’t plan to leave too soon.’

  Hekla shrugged. ‘It depends on the new owners.’

  ‘New owners?’ The words croaked out of Lucy’s throat in sudden alarm. ‘What do you mean?’

  Hekla gave her a startled look. ‘You know, the hotel is for sale.’

  ‘For sale?’ Panic clutched at Lucy, her stomach clenching in fear. A change of ownership often meant a change of management. ‘What now?’

  ‘Ja, there is a prospective buyer. They are negotiating but Mr Pedersen said that it is likely that things will be signed in December.’

  Lucy swallowed hard. December. Her contract was up in December. At her sharp indrawn breath, Hekla looked at her.

  ‘Don’t worry. They will need a manager.’

  ‘Yes but…’ Not necessarily me. Now the short-term contract made perfect sense, she realised with a sinking heart. Not the probationary period she’d assumed because they were taking her without proper references but short term because they wouldn’t need her.

  ‘Petta reddast,’ reminded Hekla gently. ‘It will work out. I think already you have good ideas. You have good experience, ja?’

  Lucy nodded. She did have bloody good experience. The best. She could make this work. Maybe she needed to believe in herself, she always had done before. Everything had been fine before that damned video had gone viral, until head office had fired her, before Chris had shafted her so well and truly.

  Hvolsvöllur was even smaller than Lucy had expected, the town sitting in a flat vale with a few roads. Red rooved houses lined the roads as Hekla drove through, pointing out where her cousins had lived, an uncle, her school friend’s mother’s house. It seemed as if Hekla knew everyone in town. She knew exactly where to go to buy the coffee machine that had been their principal purpose and within half an hour they were done.

  ‘Would you like to stop in the tourist shop, Una Local?’ she asked. ‘It has some nice things.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ said Lucy gloomily. ‘I might have to buy Christmas presents to take home with me.’ Something for Daisy who’d been so good to her this past year and her Mum and Dad who thought this was a great adventure and had no idea what had driven her to make such a radical career change.

  Hekla shook her head. ‘Petta reddast. You are an Icelander now. A solution will come.’

  ‘I hope so,’ muttered Lucy, who until now deliberately hadn’t thought beyond mid-December.

  ‘It will,’ said Hekla, with what Lucy now thought of her as Viking Princess resilience.

  The shop wasn’t the prettiest building, it looked more like a series of three airport hangers, painted red, yellow and blue with a large puffin painted on the front door, but inside the white airy space was filled with well-displayed traditional Icelandic crafts and gifts on little wooden tables. Fairy lights were strung around the ceiling and Lucy did a double take at the sight of a bicycle suspended on its side and the various ornaments dangling from the spokes of the wheels. On the walls, hanging from hangers on hooks, there was a fine selection of the heavy wool jumpers she associated with Northern Europe, the necklines decorated with the familiar Scandinavian knitted patterns, along with woollen poncho style tops, scarves and hats. There were pretty watercolours of puffins, photographs of hardy Icelandic ponies, papier mâché trolls, printed cushions and colourful tea-towels. Everything, although eye-wateringly expensive, was beautifully made and Lucy could have spent a fortune. In one corner there was a Norse Viking figure made of sheepskin, with a knitted helmet around which a couple of tourists crowded taking selfies with lots of laughs and smiles. Even Lucy had to smile at the sight of the big shambling figure.

  Hekla had already struck up a conversation with the sales lady as Lucy wandered around. She stopped again beside a display of puffin watercolour pictures. Simple but effective, she thought, they would look perfect in the guest lounge. She picked one up and carried it towards Hekla.

  ‘You’re going to buy a picture?’ she asked.

  Lucy shook her head. ‘I’d really like to display a couple in the hotel, we could direct guests here to buy them, if,’ she turned to the sales lady Hekla had been chatting to, ‘you’d be interested.’

  She was interested, in the sort of bite-your-hand-off sort of way that Lucy had hoped for and it didn’t take long for them to sort out a mutually satisfying arrangement that had her humming to herself as they carried three paintings out to the car, with the promise of more to come which could be picked up in a couple of days.

  ‘Nice work,’ said Hekla, ‘that is a good idea.’

  ‘Yup,’ said Lucy with a mischievous smile, feeling a sense of achievement. ‘Free decorations for the walls. The guest lounge is lovely but it needs more. We never did ask Eyrun about what happened to the other things.’

  ‘No, we didn’t.’ Hekla’s airy response made Lucy giggle.

  ‘You’re scared of her too.’

  Hekla tried and failed to keep an innocent face before giggling back at her and nodding.

  ‘She terrifies me. That’s why you’re the boss. You have to ask her.’ Hekla threw her a challenging glance. ‘Two shots. Tomorrow night.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Tomorrow. We are playing card games in the staff lounge. Drinking games.’ Hekla’s face wreathed in mischief. ‘Dares. If you don’t ask Eyrun, you have to drink two shots.’

  Lucy laughed. ‘And what do you do, if I do?’

  Hekla shrugged. ‘I guess I have to drink two shots.’

  ‘Does this happen often?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘The evenings are long and dark, we like to get together. The card games are Elin’s idea. She and Brynja and Freya are all good fun. And Brynja’s boyfriend, Dagur and Gunnar are so funny. Olafur can be a bit sulky sometimes but then he forgets and he’s nice. And new Alex is fun too and very easy on the eye as they say.’

  Back in the car on their way to the hotel, Hekla reminded her of their dare. Lucy shrugged. She’d never backed down from a challenge, even so she was going to have to steel herself for another run in with Eyrun.

  ‘Eyrun?’ Lucy called, cross with herself for being so timid. She was in charge here for heaven’s sake. Despite the dull rhythmic thud of towels in the huge dryer, there was no sign of the Head of Housekeeping. Lucy let out a small sigh of relief

  Was it any wonder Eyrun rarely left her little cave, there was something rather soothing about the somnolent thrum of the dryers? The warm dry air made her feel pleasantly dopey and relaxed and she closed her eyes for a few minutes just letting herself be for a while. Hekla’s positive attitude and talk of petta reddast this morning had given Lucy food for thought. She’d always been organised and successful through hard work and diligence but, before now, she’d never had to face much adversity.

  All the angry bees that had been buzzing in her head for so long, keeping her awake at night with their what ifs and if onlys, had taken flight, leaving a welcome nothingness in her head. The cycle of constant recriminations and fear of doing everything wrong that had hamstrung and exhausted her the past year had dissipated for once, and with Hekla’s words taking root, she was thinking about being more resilient. Not letting Chris win. She’d needed to take charge,
assert her authority and not just with Eyrun.

  When the dryer had finally finished its cycle, the quiet of the Lodge echoed in her ears, so silent and still she could almost hear the soft buzz of the dust and fibres settling.

  For a second, she gave into the quiet atmosphere, slouching against a trolley, her head resting on the metal handle.

  As she drooped over the trolley, she saw the sliver of light widen as the door opened very, very slowly.

  Someone slipped in and with furtive intent looked around, overlooking her in the dark corner. The male figure moved forward towards the other room which housed the huge industrial washing machines and a couple of floor-to-ceiling storage cupboards. She watched as he carefully pushed the door too behind him, leaving it an inch open.

  What on earth was he up to? And who was it? Lucy felt uncomfortable spying but as someone in the hotel had been playing unwelcome games, she felt justified even though there’d been no repeat of the dead mice or any other tricks recently. Was she about to catch the culprit in the act? She grabbed an armful of sheets from a nearby trolley to give her a reason for being here and creeping forward to the doorway of the stockroom, she peeped through the gap.

  Alex! What on earth was he doing in here?

  For a few seconds she watched him as he sifted through a pile of duvet covers, poked at the stack of pillowcases, opened a few cupboards and crouched down to take a closer look at the washing powders and cleaning fluids on the shelf.

  Lucy pushed open the door making as much noise as she could.

  He whirled round, his handsome face a picture.

  Handsome. For God’s sake, Lucy, he’s nice looking, that’s all. But there was a distinct flutter in her stomach.

  For what felt like a second too long they stared at one another, with that momentary now what of a pair of gun slingers facing each other.

  ‘Alex!’ Her voice was an octave too high. ‘Fancy seeing you here? Are you helping out with the laundry now?’