The Light in the Window

By half past four, the rain had swallowed the hills.

It hadn't begun dramatically. Just that fine Highland drizzle that

seems to hang in the air rather than fall from it. The sort of rain

you

convince yourself isn't really rain at all, right up until you realise

you're soaked through.

An hour later, it was coming sideways.

I pulled the hood of my jacket tighter around my face and looked

down at Moss.

He looked back at me with the particular expression of a spaniel

who had been promised a walk and had instead been introduced

to

several miles of horizontal water.

"Don't look at me like that," I told him. "You were the one

desperate to come."

Moss shook himself.

Water flew from his ears and landed directly across my trousers.

"Excellent. Thank you."

The path ahead had almost disappeared.

What had been a pale ribbon through the heather that afternoon

was now little more than a darker line beneath the water. Beyond

it, the

hills had vanished completely.

I stopped.

I knew enough about walking in the Highlands to know when

determination was beginning to turn into stupidity.

My gloves were wet through. Water had found its way down the

back of my neck some time ago, and every few steps my left boot

made an

unpleasant squelching noise.

I reached into my pocket for my phone.

No signal.

Of course.

There should have been a bothy somewhere ahead.

Not far, according to the map.

Although it hadn't looked far when I'd been sitting at the kitchen

table that morning with a mug of coffee, dry socks and all the

confidence

of someone studying contour lines from indoors.

So we carried on.

For another twenty minutes, there was nothing but rain.

Then Moss stopped.

His head lifted.

I nearly walked straight into him.

"What is it?"

His ears moved forward.

I followed his gaze.

At first I thought I'd imagined it.

There, through all that grey, was something that didn't belong to

the hillside.

A tiny square of amber.

I stared at it.

A window.

There was a light in the window.

I don't think I've ever been so pleased to see four stone walls.

The bothy emerged slowly through the weather. First the chimney.

Then the dark line of its roof. Then rough stone walls almost the

same

colour as the hillside around them.

The green wooden door was shut tight against the storm.

Smoke curled from the chimney and was immediately torn apart

by the wind.

I could have cried.

Instead, I laughed.

"Come on, Moss."

He didn't need telling twice.

By the time I reached the door, my fingers were so cold it took me

two attempts to work the latch.

I pushed.

For a second the wind fought me for it.

Then the door gave way.

And I still remember the first thing I felt.

Warmth.

It touched my face before I'd even crossed the threshold.

Not the clean, invisible warmth of a radiator.

This had weight to it.

It rolled towards me from the fire, catching my frozen cheeks and

fingertips, making my skin prickle as though I'd stepped into

sunlight.

Then came the smell.

Woodsmoke first.

Thick and earthy.

Then damp wool. Wet boots. Old stone.

Tea.

And beneath all of it, something so ordinary that it nearly undid

me.

Warm bread and butter.

Moss squeezed between my legs before I'd even taken another

step.

Four strangers turned towards us.

"Get that door shut before we all end up in the North Sea!"

Someone laughed.

I wrestled it closed behind me.

The roar of the storm became a muffled thud against the stone walls.

And for a few seconds I just stood there.

My glasses had fogged.

Water was dripping from my sleeves.

Moss was already introducing himself to everyone.

The room was smoky, crowded and rough around every edge.

And I remember thinking:

I've never seen anywhere so beautiful.

"You're soaked through."

The woman nearest the fire was perhaps in her sixties. Silver hair

had escaped from beneath a woollen hat and curled around

cheeks made

pink by the heat.

"Soaked is being generous," I said.

She laughed.

"Coat off. Get yourself over here."

A broad-shouldered man beside her shuffled along the bench.

"Dog can come by the fire."

Moss needed no further invitation. He walked straight over,

positioning himself in front of the flames before looking up at

the man beside

him.

"I'm Jean," the woman said. "That's Robert."

Robert lifted a hand.

"I'm Mara. And the traitor in front of the fire is Moss."

Robert reached down and scratched behind Moss's ears.

"Hi, Moss"

Moss leaned against his leg as though they'd known each other

for years.

"Traitor," I muttered.

A younger man sitting at the table pushed a chipped enamel mug

towards me.

"Tea?"

I could have kissed him.

"Please."

He poured it from an old blackened kettle and passed it over.

I wrapped both hands around the mug.

The heat almost hurt.

It crept slowly back into my fingers, making them sting and

throb as feeling returned.

I took a sip.

Too strong.

Barely any milk.

Possibly the best tea I'd ever tasted.

"Callum," he said, pointing to himself.

Then he nodded towards a woman crouched beside the fire,

carefully arranging another piece of wood.

"And that's Aisha."

Aisha looked over her shoulder.

"Welcome to the five-star accommodation."

I looked around at the stone walls, damp socks and smoke

collecting beneath the rafters.

"Do we get breakfast?"

"No. But checkout is extremely flexible."

That was the first proper laugh of the evening.

I think it was also the moment I stopped being frightened.

Nobody had arrived together.

Aisha had reached the bothy first, not long after the rain turned.

Jean and Robert arrived perhaps twenty minutes later.

Callum came next.

Then Moss and me.

The storm had simply gathered us up one by one and pushed us

through the same green door.

Jean took my coat and found a nail for it near the fire.

It joined four others, dripping steadily onto the stone floor.

My gloves went onto the edge of the hearth.

My socks stayed exactly where they were.

There are limits to how quickly strangers should become

acquainted.

"Right," Jean announced. "Food."

She reached into her rucksack and pulled out a bundle wrapped

in cloth.

The smell I'd noticed when I came through the door suddenly

became stronger.

Bread.

A proper round loaf, flour still clinging to the crust.

It had been slightly flattened in her bag, but nobody cared.

"Made it this morning," she said.

Robert looked at her.

"You said you made it yesterday."

"I started it yesterday."

"That's different."

"Do you want some or not?"

Robert became quiet.

Jean tore the loaf apart with her hands.

The crust cracked.

Inside, it was still soft.

She passed pieces around the room and then produced a small

block of butter wrapped in paper.

It had softened during the walk and yielded immediately beneath

my knife.

I spread far too much across the bread.

It melted into the torn centre and gathered in little golden pools.

I took a bite.

And closed my eyes.

There are foods you remember because they're extraordinary.

Then there are foods you remember because of where you were

when you ate them.

That bread belonged to the second kind.

It was warm and slightly salty from the butter, with a thick crust

that took some chewing.

My hands were still wrapped around the hot mug.

The fire was beginning to dry the knees of my trousers.

Rain battered the window.

I was safe.

That was what the bread tasted of.

Safety.

I opened my eyes.

Moss was staring at me.

"No."

His eyes moved deliberately towards the bread.

"Absolutely not."

Robert quietly tore off a corner of his piece.

Jean saw him.

"Don't."

"I haven't done anything."

"You were about to."

"That's not the same thing."

Moss moved closer to Robert.

By the time Jean turned around, the bread had disappeared.

"I saw that."

Robert shrugged.

"He likes me."

"You bribed him."

"Still counts."

Moss rested his chin on Robert's knee.

Their arrangement was complete.

The light disappeared quickly after that.

One moment I could still make out the wet hillside through the

little window.

The next, the glass had become black.

Every so often the reflection of the fire moved across it.

Outside, the wind threw rain against the stone.

Inside, we began to settle.

Not deliberately.

It just happened.

Boots migrated towards the hearth.

Callum surrendered his dignity and removed both socks, hanging

them from a piece of string above the fire.

One immediately fell off.

Aisha caught it before it landed in the kettle.

"That," she said, holding the sock between two fingers, "would

have ended the evening."

Callum looked horrified.

"I'd have drunk it."

"You'd have drunk sock tea?"

"Have you seen the weather?"

By then we were laughing at almost anything.

The room grew warmer.

And smokier.

Every time the wind changed direction, smoke rolled back down

the chimney and filled the air.

Eyes watered.

People coughed.

Someone opened the door for ten seconds and immediately

regretted it.

The smell settled into everything.

My hair.

My jumper.

Moss.

The blankets.

Even the bread began to taste faintly of smoke.

Years later, whenever I catch woodsmoke on somebody's coat in

winter, I am back in that room.

Stories came next.

That's what people do when there's nowhere else to go.

Robert and Jean had been walking together for thirty-seven years.

Or thirty-six.

This resulted in a ten-minute disagreement involving their

wedding anniversary, a holiday in Skye and a broken-down Ford

Escort.

Nobody ever discovered who was right.

Callum was twenty-eight, from Glasgow, and had decided to

spend a week walking alone because, in his words, he "needed

some peace."

Three days in, he'd discovered that peace involved quite a lot of

being cold.

That morning he'd lost his right boot to a bog.

"How do you lose a boot you're wearing?" I asked.

"With astonishing speed."

Apparently he'd stepped onto what looked like solid ground, sunk

almost to his knee, pulled his foot free and left the boot behind.

He'd spent five minutes standing barefoot on a tussock trying to

fish it out with both hands.

Jean laughed so hard she had to put her tea down.

Aisha had been travelling alone too.

She spoke less than the others, but when she did everyone

listened.

The previous afternoon she'd sat on a hillside and watched a

golden eagle circle above the glen.

"For how long?" I asked.

"Ten minutes. Maybe more."

"Did you take a picture?"

She shook her head.

"Didn't want to."

That surprised me.

"Why?"

She looked towards the fire.

"Sometimes I think taking a picture makes me start thinking

about keeping a moment instead of actually being in it."

Nobody said anything for a second.

Then Callum lifted his mug.

"That's annoyingly profound."

Aisha smiled.

"I've had two teas."

Later, when the fire had burned down a little and the room

became quieter, I looked around at the five of us.

Six with Moss.

A few hours earlier, I hadn't known any of these people existed.

Now Robert was snoring gently against the wall.

Jean was mending a loose strap on her rucksack.

Callum was trying to dry the inside of one boot without setting it

on fire.

Aisha was reading something by torchlight.

Moss was asleep with his head across Robert's boot, his paws

twitching occasionally as though whatever walk he was

dreaming about had considerably better weather.

Nobody had asked what anybody earned.

Nobody knew what sort of house anyone lived in.

Nobody had asked what car was waiting at the end of the road.

None of it mattered in there.

In that room, wealth had become something entirely different.

Dry firewood.

A hot mug between cold hands.

Bread and butter.

A pair of socks that weren't wet.

And enough room beside the fire for one more person.

I think about that often.

It was Robert who found the note.

He'd woken from his doze and was rummaging around a shelf

near the fireplace looking for another candle.

"What have we got here?"

He pulled out a thin piece of wood.

It looked as though it had once been part of an old packing crate.

There were words written across it in pencil.

Faded almost to nothing.

Robert held it closer to the lantern.

Jean looked up.

"Oh."

"What?" I asked.

She smiled.

"I'd forgotten about that."

Robert turned the wood around so we could see.

Four words had been written on it.

For whoever comes next.

"You've seen that before?" Callum asked.

Robert looked at Jean.

"Thirty years ago?"

"Thirty-two."

"Of course you know."

"I was there."

He laughed.

"Thirty-two years ago, then."

Jean put down the strap she was repairing.

"We were younger than you," she said, nodding towards Callum.

"Speak for yourself," Robert replied.

"You had hair."

"Unnecessary."

She smiled.

"We came here in weather like this."

"Worse," Robert said.

"It wasn't worse."

"It was."

"There wasn't even snow."

"There was wind."

"There is wind now."

Robert looked around the room.

"You see what I've lived with?"

Jean ignored him.

"When we arrived, the bothy was empty. Freezing. But someone

had left dry kindling beside the hearth."

Robert placed the piece of wood on the table.

"Matches in a tin. Two candles. Little bag of tea."

"And that note," Jean said.

I ran my thumb lightly over the faded pencil.

"Do you know who left it?"

"No," said Robert.

"You never found out?"

He shook his head.

"Never tried."

"Why?"

He looked at the fire for a moment.

"Because I don't think it was meant to be about them."

That silenced us.

Jean reached over and turned the little piece of wood the right

way around.

"We used what we needed," she said. "And before we left, we

replaced it."

Aisha looked towards the stack of firewood.

"So you've been doing that ever since?"

Jean smiled.

"Not just us."

I woke to silence.

For a moment, I didn't know where I was.

Then I smelled smoke.

My neck hurt.

One foot was numb.

And something heavy was lying across my legs.

Moss.

Of course.

The fire had burned down to glowing embers.

Around the room, sleeping bags and blankets formed strange

shapes in the half-light.

I looked towards the window.

Grey.

Not black.

Morning.

I carefully moved Moss's head and stood.

Everything ached.

I opened the door.

Cold air rushed in.

But the storm was gone.

Completely.

The world outside looked newly made.

Water glittered on the grass.

Tiny streams ran down the hillside where there hadn't been

streams yesterday.

Cloud clung to the mountains, but every so often it lifted enough

to reveal dark slopes washed clean by the rain.

Somewhere far down the glen, sunlight had found a gap.

A narrow beam stretched across the hillside.

Behind me, Jean appeared.

She wrapped her coat around herself and stood beside me.

"Better."

"Much."

We stayed there without talking.

Moss squeezed between us and trotted outside.

He shook himself despite being completely dry.

Habit, apparently.

Jean laughed.

"He's a good dog."

"He'll leave with Robert if I'm not careful."

"He wouldn't be the first."

Breakfast was the remains of everything.

Bread.

Cheese from Aisha.

A bruised apple Callum had been carrying for three days.

Coffee so strong Robert described it as "structural."

Then everyone began packing.

And something happened that I didn't notice at first.

Jean found an old brush and swept the floor.

Callum brought in an armful of wood to replace what we'd burned.

Aisha checked the match tin and added another small box from

her pack.

Robert cleaned the kettle and set it back beside the hearth.

Nobody discussed it.

Nobody made a list.

They simply did it.

I packed my sleeping bag.

Rolled my coat.

Found one glove underneath Moss.

Then I saw the little piece of wood on the shelf.

For whoever comes next.

I looked around the bothy.

There was more wood beside the fire than when we'd arrived.

Matches in the tin.

A clean kettle.

A couple of tea bags.

Then I remembered something.

At the bottom of my rucksack was a small emergency torch.

I'd bought it months earlier and carried it on every walk since.

I'd never used it.

I picked it up.

For a second, I hesitated.

It was a good torch.

Then I laughed at myself.

That was rather the point.

I put it on the shelf.

Beside it, I placed two spare batteries.

Callum noticed.

"Good torch."

"It is."

"Sure?"

I looked at the faded words.

"Yeah."

I tore a corner from an old receipt in my map case and borrowed

Jean's pencil.

I started to write the same four words.

Then stopped.

They were already there.

They didn't need saying twice.

Instead, I wrote:

Still working. Batteries underneath.

Robert read it over my shoulder.

"Practical."

"I panicked under pressure."

He laughed.

"Perfect."

We left just after nine.

Jean and Robert were heading east.

Aisha was continuing north.

Callum had decided that character building was overrated and

was taking the shortest route back to the road.

Moss and I were heading south through the glen.

There were hugs.

Numbers exchanged.

Promises about photographs.

Robert crouched down and rubbed Moss behind the ears.

"You could come with us."

"No, he couldn't."

Moss looked at me.

"Don't even think about it."

Jean pointed at her husband.

"He's fed that dog half a loaf."

"Allegedly."

"Robert."

"Fine. Some bread."

Moss licked his hand.

Traitor.

Then, one by one, we walked away.

After a hundred yards or so, I stopped.

I don't know why.

I turned around.

The bothy sat against the hillside exactly as it had the evening

before.

Four stone walls.

A chimney.

One little window.

A green wooden door.

There was a thin curl of smoke above the roof.

Nothing about it suggested anything extraordinary had

happened there.

And perhaps nothing had.

Five wet strangers had sheltered from some bad weather.

They'd eaten.

Talked.

Slept.

Then left.

But I can still remember almost every detail.

The sting of heat returning to my fingers.

Callum's sock nearly landing in the kettle.

Aisha's eagle.

Jean tearing bread apart with her hands.

Butter melting into the middle.

Robert pretending not to feed Moss.

The smell of smoke in my hair.

And that little piece of wood.

For whoever comes next.

I didn't understand it properly when I first read it.

I think I do now.

A bothy isn't made welcoming by stone walls.

It isn't the roof.

Or the fire.

Or even the green door.

It's the person who carries in another armful of wood because

somebody they will never meet might arrive cold.

It's the stranger who leaves matches in a tin.

The person who sweeps the floor before walking away.

The last tea bag left deliberately behind.

A torch on a shelf.

Small things.

Ordinary things.

Things nobody gets thanked for.

By evening, the five of us would be miles apart again.

Perhaps we'd never stand in the same room twice.

But for one wet Highland night, we'd shared a fire, a kettle, bread

and butter, stories, laughter and the shelter of four stone walls.

Nobody owned the bothy.

Perhaps that was why, for a little while, it belonged to all of us.

I watched the smoke curl above the chimney for another moment.

Then Moss barked somewhere ahead.

I turned towards him and started walking.

And behind us, on a shelf beside the green door, a small torch

waited in the quiet.

For whoever came next.