‘It’s bright.’
‘Yup. Can’t lose us.’
I am pleasantly surprised when Tom asks if I’d like to go in the front, so surprised that I say yes and climb up. Most men assume that the front seat is for them.
‘It’s a half hour’s drive to get to Mannderdale, where we’re headed. It’s a management training college and will be our HQ. I suggest you lean back and enjoy the scenery.’ He flashes a grin before adding, ‘It’s probably the only chance you’ll get.’
Apprehension skitters across the base of my belly. I’ve tried hard not to think about what the next five days hold. I’m not really an outdoorsy person, not by design or choice, just because I never had the opportunity. It’s outside my experience, so I have no idea whether I’ll be good or bad at it. Looking at Tom’s walking trousers and Granite Gear rucksack (I’m betting it’s a good brand), I can confidently predict that he was probably a Boy Scout or did a Duke of Edinburgh award.
Dry stone walls, neat and precise, line the road. We’re not in London anymore. There seems to be an inordinate number of coaches cruising at snail’s pace along the narrow roads and we’re soon stuck behind one.
Mark, however, is patient as we trundle along. ‘Local hazard. Coach trips.’ I turn away from the view of the wheezing coach exhaust as we meander along and instead look at the green fields dotted with grubby sheep, heads glued to the grass, which abound in every direction. I’d expected something a bit more dramatic, so I’m relieved we’ve been driving through soft and gentle scenery. I had visions of hiking up mountains.
‘Lake Windermere,’ says Mark, a man of few words, pointing through the trees to the flat water we catch glimpses of along the drive; it looks peaceful and serene. It’s the tail end of summer, early September, and the trees are still full-leaved and green.
Traffic is heavy until we turn off the main road, gradually climbing. The landscape starts to change, fewer trees, and the green is replaced by the burnt bracken and tussocky grass. Suddenly we crest the hill and I gasp. The view is magnificent and, with a visceral punch to the heart, I get what all those ‘wander lonely as a cloud’ poets and painters had been banging on about. Mountains in faded purples range along the horizon. The hillside falls away in front of us, another lake glistening in the distance, the road a vee between hills winding down.
‘Never gets old,’ says Mark, looking over at me.
I smile at him although my brain is screaming, ‘Eyes on the road, eyes on the road.’ ‘No. I imagine not.’ They are big hills. Mountains. Did I know there were mountains in England? I hope we’re not going to be hiking up them. Suddenly five days on the loose seems quite a long time. They’re not expecting us to walk to London, are they?
I shrink back into my seat trying to fight that familiar I’m-out-of-place feeling, which most of the time I’m able to keep on top of.
Mannerdale Hall looks like a stately home, nestled in the valley surrounded by trees, with verdant gardens swooping down a gentle swell to the shores of a lake. There’s a jetty down there, around which kayaks and floats are tied up. My stomach drops. Why hadn’t it occurred to me that there might be water-based activities? The Lake District might have been a clue.
‘Here we are. I’ll drop you at the front. Someone’ll meet you and show you your rooms. You’ll be sharing.’
Tom and both look at each other, startled horror etched large.
Mark guffaws. ‘Not with each other. Don’t worry, it’s not that sort of programme.’
He’s still chuckling away to himself as we traipse through the porch into the hall where we’re greeted by another rugged-looking bloke. Once he’s checked our names on his clipboard, he leads us towards a grand staircase that has seen better days. No lift then. There’s no offer to carry my case, which is absolutely fine by me. I’m quite happy to do it and quite capable – as long as it’s at my own pace. The two men lope ahead exchanging small talk.
I tune out because I need all my effort to lift, grunt, move forward and not fall. The steps are wide and shallow, which means there are a lot of the buggers.
‘Here, let me.’ Tom appears at my side, nudges me out of the way and picks up my case. ‘Otherwise we’ll be here all night. How many pairs of shoes have you got in here?’ he asks, and before I can roll my eyes at the unnecessary girly pigeonholing, he adds, ‘Please don’t tell me you have more than one pair of those hobnail boots of yours.’
Is he actually making a joke?
‘Well,’ I tilt my head, ‘there’s the green pair, the blue pair and of course I have purple. You have to co-ordinate, you know.’
His laugh is a short, sharp bark. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have asked.’
‘I like to be prepared.’
We reach the top of the stairs and I’m shown into my room first.
‘Here you go’ is all the rugged bloke says before he turns and leads Tom further down the corridor.
I walk into a beautiful bright room with three windows looking out over the lake. There are two single beds in the room, with white functional duvets. At the end of one there’s a suitcase, which if anything is marginally bigger than mine.
‘Hey Roomie!’ A woman pops out of the bathroom. She takes one look at my suitcase and beams.
I beam back because she has one of those lovely open sunny faces that are impossible not to like.
‘I’m Tansy.’ She holds up her hand. ‘And before you say anything, I know, I’ve heard it all before. Shit name but I didn’t choose it. Apparently, it’s a plant and also a really pretty beetle. Not sure my folks knew the latter.’
I want to laugh. She doesn’t know how lucky she is.
My parents, buoyed up by my arrival, downed not one but two bottles of champagne. Consequently, on their visit to register my birth they had settled up on Taittinger as a suitable name but, at the last minute, decided it would be utterly hilarious to name me … Chlamydia. I have since discovered that registrars are prevented by law from making any comment on names. That’s one law I’d campaign to change.
Of course I don’t ever reveal this, so I say, as I always do to any new acquaintance, ‘Hi, I’m Lydia. Lydie to my friends.’
‘See, why didn’t my parents give me a nice name like that? Honestly, you’d think I was some hippy child that grew up on organic home-made yoghurt and quinoa. My parents are Mr and Mrs So Normal.’ She shakes her head and grins. ‘You travel light too.’
I grin back at her. ‘Not particularly.’
‘Fancy a G&T?’ She opens her case and produces a bottle of gin and a six-pack of Fever Tree tonics. ‘I think we might need something to get us through this. My flatmate blackmailed me into signing up; she’s on the production team. If they didn’t get enough bodies on board, she was out of a job. Given she pays half my mortgage, it was a no-brainer. Besides, you got to be in it to win it. Ten grand for showing up will do nicely. And a shot at a hundred grand doesn’t fall in your lap every day. How did you get conned?’
‘The short story is that I inherited my gran’s house and it’s been trashed by … by squatters. I want to use the money to restore it.’
‘That sucks. Hope you get through.’ She laughs. ‘If I win, my flatmate is dust. I’m going to pay off her half of the mortgage so I don’t have to share with her anymore.’
While Tansy liberated a couple of tooth mugs from the bathroom, I unpacked essentials from my suitcase, careful not to expose too much of the contents.
‘I have snacks,’ I say, producing two packets of crisps.
