Chapter 4
Bob the Not Builder is a man of his word. He arranged a taxi to take me and Charlie to the glamorous location of a service station with its own version of a Travelodge. It has a dodgy neon sign outside it that is on the blink, announcing to the world that it has free Wi.
“At least it has free Wi,” I said to Charlie as we walked to the lobby.
“Yeah. But the kicker is it’s a hundred pounds an hour for the Fi,” he replied.
Before we left, Luke insisted on handing me some cash, “just in case you need the Toblerone.” I was hesitant to accept it—Luke lives in a motorhome; he doesn’t exactly seem dripping in wealth. I felt that he had done enough, that the kindness of strangers can be taken too far—but one look at Charlie’s face told me he was right. He was pale, exhausted, a faint tremor on his lips.
The boy was going to need a Toblerone for sure, or maybe a bag of fish and chips. Luke’s money also meant that I had enough to stop into a supermarket and pick up a phone charger, which is most definitely one of life’s essentials these days. The hotel was expecting us and greeted us like refugees—which I suppose we were. The staff on reception had already got together a package for us: basic toiletries, toothbrushes, a box of spare clothes that had been left behind in rooms and never reclaimed, and, in an especially kind touch, a bottle of red wine. I felt like kissing both the bottle and the receptionist.
We were escorted to a decent-sized twin room on the first floor and told to make ourselves at home. Goodness , I thought, please don’t let that be true —it was a pleasant enough hotel, but it was far from being home. We both showered, and I hand-washed our undies in the sink using shower gel and, before we both collapsed, went in search of food.
The restaurant was still open, and we were told it was all being paid for by the council. Now we are sitting here, among people with normal lives, people who presumably still have homes and possessions. It all feels so strange. The storm has indeed calmed, but the sky is still gray, already dark and gloomy by nine, perfectly suiting our mood as we sit at a small table by the window with plates full of pizza and garlic bread.
Charlie, always hungry at the best of times, is wolfing his down like a man who has been starved for a week. I see the immediate effect—he seems stronger the moment the first bite of pepperoni hits his tongue. I, on the other hand, am finding it impossible to stomach more than a mouthful. I am just too tired, too stressed, too on edge. A million thoughts are swirling around in my mind, none of them good. You don’t realize how much stuff you have—how much stuff you need—until you lose it.
I am chatting to Charlie, trying to keep his spirits up, but at the same time I am mentally cataloging everything we need to replace and how much it will cost. Multitasking at its finest. I am trying to avoid cataloging the things we can’t ever replace—the pictures, the knickknacks, the items that have no financial value but are the ones I will miss the most. I wish I was sitting at my own kitchen table, with its gingham cloth and the little jam jar I’d filled with wildflowers. I wish I was eating beans on toast rather than this feast, looking forward to nothing more exciting than finding something to watch on TV.
As we’d traveled home on the bus earlier today— Could it possibly still be the same day? I wonder—my problems had seemed overwhelming. The threat of losing my job. The few days left until payday. A minor spat with Charlie. Now, looking back, I’d give anything to go back in time and have only those problems to deal with. I suppose that’s always the way in life, isn’t it? A lesson to live in the present, even if it seems less than ideal. In fact, I’d better enjoy this pizza, before Godzilla and King Kong decide to fight their last and greatest battle in rural Norfolk and we become collateral damage. You never know—it could happen.
“Mum?” says Charlie, interrupting my thoughts. I can tell from his tone that it’s not the first time he’s said the word. “Are you okay? You look a bit... wrecked?”
“Ah, thank you, son,” I reply, forcing a smile onto my face. “Always nice to know I’m creating a good impression. I’m all right, yeah... just, you know, thinking about stuff.”
“You always tell me it’s a bad idea to think too much.”
“And it probably is—but there is a lot of stuff to think about right now, and I’m trying to do it before I fall asleep for a thousand years.”
He nods and puts down his fork. He stares at the table, at the remnants of our meal, and says: “It’s nice here, isn’t it? Great food.”
I glance around and see a few business travelers, some tourists probably on their way to somewhere else, men who look like they’re on a stopover on their truck driving routes. It is nice, in a generic refillable coffee machine kind of way.
“Yep,” I reply. “I’d give it two Michelin Tires.”
He frowns, not getting the reference, but not wanting to show it.
“Michelin is a restaurant guide,” I explain. “And a company that makes tires. That’s what makes it a hilarious joke. You can look it up on your phone, and then it will become real to you.”
“Oh. I see. Is this going to be one of those ‘the younger generation never get off their phones’ conversations? The one where you tell me that in your day, you used to play on rope swings for twelve hours and drink water straight from the sewers and play rounders in the park even though you had a broken ankle and it never did you any harm?”
My mouth twitches in amusement; we have had versions of this conversation many times. It is a game we regularly play. “Yeah. You young people and your phones, it’s a disgrace. I bet you don’t know how to do anything without your phone.”
“No, we don’t. I have to google ‘wiping your own arse’ every time I go to the loo.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. I bet, before long, everything will be replaced with phones.”
“Like what?”
I screw up my eyes and try to think of a silly example—we both need the distraction; we both need a few moments of levity.
“Like rubbish bins. I bet you don’t have bins in the future.”
“No, we’ll just use our phones.”
“And chairs.”
“You’re right, we’ll just sit on our phones. They’re really comfy.”
“And Pot Noodles.”
“Mum! Don’t be ridiculous—some things are sacred, and we will always have Pot Noodles...” He reaches out and squeezes my hand, grinning. “We’ll be all right, Mum. We can still make each other laugh, so all is well in the world.”
He is being so brave, so grown-up, so mature—he is comforting me, consoling me, trying to get me to see the bright side. This is a whole new dynamic to our relationship and I’m not totally sure how I feel about it. He is my baby, my child, my responsibility—I am the one who should be looking after him, not the other way around. I know none of this is my fault—I didn’t create the storm or the cliffs or the sea—but I still feel terrible, as though I have let him down.
“But your stuff, Charlie. I’m so sorry...”
“’S’okay. Eventually, I’ll get new stuff. And it is only stuff.”
“Even your Xbox?”
“Well, that’s part of my soul, like Voldemort and his Horcruxes, but less creepy. I carry my Xbox within me, wherever I go... but one day, maybe I’ll upgrade. You can help me pick a new username; it’ll be like a whole new world.”
“I vote for DickBagBallFace.”
“I’m not sure that’ll fit. Could abbreviate it to Dick. What do you think?”
“I think,” I say, leaning across the table to give him a big and undoubtedly embarrassing kiss on the forehead, “that you are the best human in the whole world. I love you, and I’m proud of you, and right now I even like you.”
“Wow. The L word. Thanks. So... what happens next?”
“In life?”
“More like tonight.”
What I would like to happen next is for me to curl up in a ball in my nice clean bed and sleep. Lord knows I need it. But I also know that with my mind in its current hyperaware state, there is no way that I will manage it. I will just lie awake, tossing and turning and thinking and crying, and that will not be good for me or for Charlie.
“I think you should go back up to the room and chill for a bit,” I say, watching with astonishment as he demolishes a whole slice of garlic bread that was left on the plate.
He holds up a hand to gesture for me to wait while he finishes chewing. Charming.
“And what will you do?” he asks. “Hit the bar, go clubbing?”
“Probably, yeah. I’ll be twerking on the tables within the hour. But before that, I have some boring stuff to do—phone calls to make, things to sort, that kind of thing. I’ll follow you up in a bit, okay?”
He yawns, hiding his mouth with his hand, and replies: “I was going to argue, but you’re right. I’m knackered. See you in a bit.”
He stands up, and once again I marvel at his ridiculous height. He is wearing a pair of tracksuit trousers from the hotel box of abandoned garments, and they are about three inches too short. He gives me a hug, and I pass him the keys.
“He was nice, wasn’t he? That guy from the motorhome? Luke? You’d made a few snarky comments about him being rude before...”
“Yeah. Well, he kind of was, to be honest—but maybe that was just the surface, and underneath he’s really nice. We’ll have to pop in and thank him. Maybe take him a little ‘thanks for dragging us out of the storm’ present.”
“Didn’t look like he needed much, did he? One of those people who seems totally sorted. Maybe something for Betty instead.”
He’s right, now I come to think about it. Luke might live in a motorhome, but it is a spacious and pleasant motorhome, perfectly equipped for a presumably adventurous life on the open road. Luke might not forage for his food, but he does give off a self-sufficient vibe—possibly a ‘don’t bother me’ vibe, which is how I’d first thought of him. Betty will definitely be an easier buy—bag of dog treats, squeaky toy, boom.
“That’s a great idea, love. Now scoot!”
Charlie nods firmly and leaves, giving me a little wave over his shoulder. I notice a teenage girl who is eating with her parents follow him with her gaze as he heads to the stairs, and it makes me smile. My son—the accidental heartbreaker.
Once he has gone, I relocate to the small bar area with a glass of wine, taking my now wonderfully charged-up phone with me. I spend an hour or so making calls: first to Barb, who is aghast at this strange turn of events and promises to help in any way she can. I can’t help thinking that this kind of thing simply wouldn’t happen to a woman like Barb. Her house wouldn’t dare fall off a cliff.
I leave a message for the landlord and am not especially looking forward to that conversation. I register my claim with our insurers, not at all convinced that they will pay out but refusing to imagine what will happen if they don’t. I check my emails, stalk a few people on Facebook, and read the online news report about “a severe cliff-fall on the local coast.” It’s weird, reading the words and seeing the picture that seems to have been taken with a drone—and knowing that it is my home they are talking about. That their breaking news is my breaking life.
The photo isn’t too clear—probably not ideal weather for drone photography—but I can vividly see the wreckage of my once-lovely home. The roof has finally given up and come off completely, the red kitchen door is still somehow standing, the cliffside is strewn with my furniture. I can make out yellow tape cordoning it all off, and vans parked nearby.
I scroll away quickly—it is too upsetting. I fear it will overwhelm me, so I move on. I browse the internet for a while, doing that mindless tumble from one link to the next that we’ve all become familiar with. The online shuffle. I read a few articles, check out a few websites, and then finish my wine.
I still don’t feel like I’m going to be able to sleep, but I can’t stay here forever. I gather my belongings, say good night to the staff, and head up to the room.
I try to creep in quietly, but Charlie sits up as I close the door behind me. His curls are all over the place, and it’s so adorable, he’d be mortified if he could see it.
“You all right?” he asks groggily. “Not going dancing?”
“Nah. Hadn’t got my dancing shoes.”
I point to my feet and the bright pink Crocs that I found in the box. Beggars, choosers, et cetera.
I head into the bathroom and use a strange toothbrush, and a strange towel, and look into the mirror to see a strange woman. I am dressed in clothes I don’t recognize, and my eyes are dark and tired. I look dreadful. That is, I decide, understandable. This has not been the kind of day that lends itself to an immaculate beauty routine.
I take off the clothes I don’t recognize and climb under sheets that are not mine, in a bed that is unfamiliar. I can hear the sound of cars outside as people top up on gas and buy late-night snacks and go on with their journeys. For everyone else, this is a stopping-off point—for me, it is the beginning of a whole new and frankly terrifying stage of my life.
“Hey, Charlie?” I say as I pull the duvet up to my chin and try to create a snuggly feeling to comfort myself.
“Yeah?”
“I’m really pleased for Eric. You’re right, it is brave.” There is a pause before he replies, and perhaps he is thinking the same as me—that that conversation now feels like it took place in another lifetime.
He grunts, but I can see the glimmer of a smile from the light creeping through the curtains.
“Go to sleep, Mum!” he answers, amusement in his voice.
And, amazingly, I do exactly that.