Jenny James Is Not a Disaster

Chapter 5

It is three days before we are allowed back to the place we used to call home. We woke up the morning after it all happened to be confronted with dazzling sunshine and dry skies, the first day without rain for a month. I kind of felt like the world was mocking me, watching the local TV news raving on about the impending heat wave, doing wrap-up pieces that featured the storm damage but focusing on all the good times ahead. Fire up the barbie, get your shorts on, don’t forget the SPF 50. If I ever meet that weatherman, I might punch him in the face.

We continued our stay at the hotel, and are now so familiar with the staff that they feel like part of an extended family. I have had meetings with Bob, and I have talked to the man in London who owns—owned—our cottage. He was amazingly laid-back about it all, but I’m assuming that our cottage was just one of a larger portfolio of properties, that maybe he was insured, that maybe he’s a multi-squillionaire, that for some reason this is not the same kind of disaster for him as it is for us. I have no idea which. He has offered us another place to stay, but it is in Essex. Charlie was all for it, as he believes the entire county will be awash with “superhot reality TV stars,” but it’s not really a feasible commute.

I have been looking for somewhere more local to rent, but it is difficult—at the moment I don’t have money set aside to pay for security deposits and advance payments, all of which you need to get a lease. I might get my deposit back from the multi-squillionaire landlord, but I’m not sure when. To add to the mass of “not sures” that make up my life, I also don’t even know if I’ll have a job for much longer.

I have, however, got my wages, which takes some of the short-term strain away. I’ve canceled the direct debit for my rent, because, well, you know—the house fell off the edge of the world. I’ve no idea if the landlord will object, or in fact even notice, so I am not going to raise the issue. There is a time to be single-minded, and this is probably it.

It’s been a very weird few days. Everyone has been so nice, so supportive, done everything they can to help. Barb turned up at the hotel the day after with a suitcase full of clothes for both of us—she has a son a few years older than Charlie and raided his cast-offs. They’re in better nick than Charlie’s original wardrobe, so he’s pretty pleased. Me, not so much—Barb wears a lot more florals and lace than I am accustomed to, and while I really appreciated it, I am still walking around feeling like I’ve been snatched and put in someone else’s body. I feel a trip to the charity shop coming on, this time for me and not the Incredible Expanding Boy.

But at least today, we are heading home. Kind of.

As the taxi pulls up at the edge of the lane, I feel a sense of constriction in my chest, a tightness in my throat. I know it is only a physical reaction to my emotional dread, but it is still unpleasant. I hide it from Charlie, and we make the familiar walk up to the cottage. Or the cottage-sized space. We are armed with gloves and heavy-duty bin bags to either collect anything we want to keep or clear up things we don’t—maybe a bit of both.

There are still signs of the work that was done here—the yellow tape, now cut down but still trailing on the ground; large heaps of rubble where brickwork was cleared; a giant dumpster filled with random items from our home. I see the corner of the sofa sticking up, and it makes me deeply sad: abandoned and unloved, dumped in a dumpster after years of loyal service. Years of providing a comfy spot for us to rest our weary limbs, a cushioned home for our bottoms. Years of watching TV and reading books and eating our dinners—and now a sad end, cast aside and presumably destined for the dump.

It is only a sofa , I tell myself. The shops are full of them.

I take a deep breath and force myself to walk on. Charlie is silent at my side, and I think it is affecting him much more deeply than he expected as well. He’s seemed okay at the hotel, but seeing this in person is completely different.

It is eye-searingly sunny, warm in that way that makes you long for a swimming pool and a cocktail. Insects are buzzing around us, and I can hear the donkeys braying in the distance, the waves gently lapping against the shore. It is the kind of idyllic summer afternoon that I have enjoyed so much over our years here, and it seems unreal that just a few days ago, this same spot looked like something from an apocalypse movie.

My hair is sticky around my face, and I wish I had a bobble to tie it up with. I wish I had so many things, but as we near the was-cottage, I realize that I don’t have many things at all. Hair bands are the least of my worries , I think, as I survey the scene.

The walls that were halfway down last time I saw them, stubs sticking up from the earth, have been demolished completely. The red door is now lying flat on the ground. The roof has been removed and stacked to one side, half covered in a tarp. Part of the area has been cleared, the bit nearest to the edge of the cliffside, but the rest still looks like it’s been hit by a bomb, like the old black-and-white news images of the Blitz.

We walk closer, our feet crunching over broken glass, smashed pottery, snapped shards of plastic. The ground is scattered with debris—fabric so muddy and torn it is beyond identifying, trampled floorboards, plaster, patches of carpet. A lot of the furniture must have gone over the edge, but my bedside cabinet is still there, lying on its side, the door thrown open and hanging on by one hinge.

“Wow,” says Charlie, walking closer to the foundations of the cottage.

You can still see the outline of the floor, the way the rooms that no longer exist were laid out. The bath is still here, filled with roof tiles and bricks, the shower curtain trapped between them. It’s a nice shower curtain—white with pale blue stripes. The whole bathroom was done in those colors, white tiles and blue towels, a mirror edged with seashells we’d collected on the beach, a little cabinet I’d painted blue and white to match. It was jaunty and vaguely nautical once. Now it’s a shipwreck.

Charlie leans down, rooting in a pile of rubble, and comes up looking triumphant. He holds aloft a small metal cup and yells: “Hey, look! My Good Citizen of the Year trophy! All is not lost!”

I know this calls for a certain response, so I force myself to laugh. Maybe this will be the first of a series of small victories—maybe we will rescue more, salvage some precious items from the destruction. Maybe not absolutely everything is gone.

I join him in the space that was the cottage, keeping a careful eye on the jagged glass that once formed windows, and look around. Up close, the details are almost comical—a frying pan with no handle sitting next to a fancy hat I once wore to a wedding; one of Charlie’s old football boots on top of the shattered screen of the TV, as though the Invisible Man stamped on it. A spatula wedged in the ground like a plant, sticking upright. The bag full of Christmas decorations I kept in the cupboard under the stairs has burst open, random strands of tinsel and tangled fairy lights strewn over the ground. I pick up the fairy we put on top of the tree—she is battered, and the poor thing only has one wing, but I reckon she will live to fly another day. I put it into one of the bags, and Charlie adds his trophy. We continue to pick through the remains of our home, and it is a surreal experience—the skylarks are singing, the sun is shining, the sea is a gentle shimmer below us, and I have just discovered my Nigella cookbook in pristine condition, hiding beneath a far less lucky one by the Hairy Bikers. Nigella goes in the bag—she’s a keeper.

We do actually manage to salvage quite a few clothes—some are beyond resuscitation, but others just need a good wash. Sadly, the washing machine is in the dumpster, but I know how to use a launderette. Charlie finds a few of his video games, though he has nothing to play them on, as well as a can of Axe Africa—because no party is complete without that. It’s a hot day, and we are working hard, and I laugh as he pulls off the lid and gives himself a quick spritz. Livin’ la vida loca .

Other random survivors include a packet of wholemeal pasta I bought when I was trying to be healthy and never ate because I don’t actually like it; several DVDs of the classic rom-coms of Hugh Grant; a half-full tub of multivitamins; and, bizarrely, a pile of travel brochures. I used to keep them in the bathroom to read while I was having a soak, taking comfort from pictures of exotic places and planning luxurious fantasy holidays I couldn’t afford but enjoyed imagining. I throw those away—there seems even less point to them now. There is one big win as we excavate our home, though, that gives me even more comfort than fantasy holidays. For years I’ve kept a wooden crate in the bottom of my wardrobe, which I creatively called my Special Things Box. Despite its name, it doesn’t look very special—at least not on the outside. I always meant to paint it, but was too busy doing other things and it remained plain. The inside, though, is a different matter. I spot it on its side near the new cliff edge, which is now fenced off and draped in neon-colored warning tape. The lid is still on, and my heart skips a beat as I make my way carefully toward it. I lean down, pick it up, feel a surge of joy as I judge its weight—this is not some cruel trick; it seems like the contents are still in there.

I carry it over to the side of the field and sit down on the grass, where I feel safer. The cliff edge has obviously stabilized or they wouldn’t have let us come out here, but it still gives me a touch of vertigo, emotional and physical, to get too close. The image of me chasing those photos in the storm is still a bit too real for comfort.

Charlie ambles over and collapses by my side. He wipes his forehead and takes a glug from his water bottle. “What have you got there?” he asks, nodding at the box in front of us.

“An Aladdin’s cave of delights,” I reply, opening it up. There is some mud on the lid, but the interior is clear. I root around inside and pull out a tiny baby’s sleepsuit decorated in dinosaur print. I hold it up and Charlie laughs.

“I don’t think it’ll fit me now...,” he says, smiling.

I lay it down on the grass, stroking the soft fabric, remembering so vividly the first time I put him in it—his dad was still around, but neither of us knew what we were doing. We were still children ourselves, and I was terrified every time I put one of his little arms into a sleeve that I would somehow snap it like a twig.

Tucked away in one corner is the plastic wristband he wore in the hospital as a newborn, worthless to anyone but me. I take out Charlie’s record book from when he was a baby, its red plastic cover containing all the scrawled numbers that immortalized his weight, his length, his development. There is a school report from kindergarten where the teacher praises his bright smile and kindness and eagerness to learn. A poem he wrote for me on Mother’s Day when he was ten, when he rhymed “heart” with “fart” in a typical little boy move. A cutting from the local paper when his primary was School of the Week and he was one of the kids in the photo. His first shoes, and his first tooth, and a lock from his first haircut.

“This is getting kind of creepy,” he says, inspecting the collection. “It’s like a museum of me.”

“It’s not creepy!” I say, feigning outrage. “All mums do this... I think.”

“Do they? Do you think your mum has a collection like this, then?”

I grab the water bottle from him, trying to buy myself a few extra seconds before I speak. The honest answer is that I don’t know. I haven’t seen my mum for such a long time, and we did not part under the most ideal of circumstances, and it hurts to even think about it. There are times in your life when you desperately want a hug from your mum—like when you give birth as a teenager, or when your partner leaves you with a toddler, or when your house falls down. Times when only the solace of maternal arms will do—that childlike sensation of knowing that everything will be all right. Mother Magic.

I try to be a good mum to Charlie, to make him feel safe, to sprinkle his life with my own version of Mother Magic—but I haven’t had it myself for years. I still remember it, though, that simple feeling of love and comfort. The certainty that whatever is wrong, Mum will be able to fix it, or at least make you feel better about it if she can’t. Things got complicated between us, things were said and done, and I did what I thought was right. I still miss that feeling, that solace—but I now recognize it as a fairy tale. Mums can’t fix everything—they just fool you into believing it. It’s not magic; it’s a placebo.

Charlie doesn’t understand why I’m estranged from my family, for a pretty good reason—I’ve never explained it to him. It felt justified when he was younger, when there was no way his forming brain could understand the complexities of the situation, the wounds dealt and the wounds received, the tangled web of pain that is cobwebbed all over my family dynamic. Now, of course, he is an adult—and clearly looking for answers. One day I will try to give them to him—but not today. “I don’t know, love. Maybe,” I say simply. “It’s not just a museum of you, though—there is some stuff in here of mine if you want to see it?”

“As long as it’s nothing that’ll make me sick in my mouth.”

“I can’t promise that...”

I pull out a small wad of pictures, ones that predate Charlie, and pass them over. He flicks through them, and I watch as he looks by turns amused and thoughtful. “It’s weird, Mum, thinking about you as a teenager—how old were you in these?”

“About fifteen, I suppose, sixteen maybe. That’s me and my then best friend, Lucy, and her cousin, who I think was called Sian.”

“Why are you posing like that? Why are you all pouting?”

“We were trying to be the Sugababes...”

He frowns, obviously unsure of the reference, and I am momentarily saddened to think that his generation has missed out on the glories of “Round Round” and “Push the Button.”

“Were you still living at home back then?” he asks quietly. He knows I left my family when I was very young, but little more than that. When he was younger, I know he accepted that reality, as kids do—but I also know that he is no longer a kid and has more questions than I am ready to answer. Especially now.

I just nod my head, staying silent, and he gets the message. I see a flicker of annoyance cross his face, see him manage it. I know I’m probably only delaying having to talk about it all, but I’ll settle for that today.

“So what’s this?” he says, pointing at a small pile of notepads covered in my loopy teenage handwriting, doodles and the ubiquitous love hearts enclosing the initials of my young heartthrobs.

“Ah, well—those are my early attempts at novels.”

“Novels? You? I mean, I know you love reading, but you’ve never mentioned writing before...”

He’s right, I haven’t. When I was younger, it was all I ever wanted to do. I wasn’t sure if I saw myself as a journalist or an author or a poet, but definitely something that involved words. I was always to be found scribbling away in those notepads, coming up with ideas, creating what I now see was very pretentiously written teenage drivel. I used to write love stories for my friends based on their favorite pop stars or actors or real-life crushes, filled with excruciating scenes about lingering glances and heated kisses.

“It was just a phase,” I say nonchalantly, “although I still wouldn’t mind being in the Sugababes.”

In truth, of course, all of those youthful hopes and dreams had to be abandoned when I became a mother. When I fell pregnant, it was all so romantic, so hopeful, so wrapped up with the way I felt about Rob, Charlie’s dad. I was swept away in some kind of juvenile fantasy that was utterly destroyed by the reality of having a newborn. Later, when I was alone, there was even less chance of finding the time or the space to write—it was a full-time job keeping us both alive and finding a way to support us. I had more important things to do than create some kind of fantasy world, and more important things to spend my money and time on than buying notepads and wasting hours on end achieving nothing at all. I probably would have missed it, but I didn’t have time.

I don’t say any of this to Charlie, though—I don’t ever want him to feel that he was in any way a mistake or a burden to me.

“I like this bit,” he says, grinning as he flicks through the pages. “It’s about someone called Nathan, looking up from his hoodie with menacing eyes...”

I laugh and grab the notepad from his hands. “Enough! There’s some X-rated stuff in there that will definitely make you sick in your mouth. How are you feeling now, anyway, love? I know this is all a lot to deal with.”

He shrugs and tucks a long strand of curls behind his ear. The boy needs a haircut. “Yeah. It is. It’s all really weird. A few days ago my biggest worry was waiting for my exam results and whether I’ll get the grades I need to go to uni. Now... well, actually, now I come to think of it, that’s still my biggest worry!”

“Really? Well, don’t worry. You’re going to smash it. And you’ll go off to London and become a leading expert on microbiology, and the world will rejoice!”

“Yeah. Maybe. I know that’s the plan anyway...”

“What do you mean, ‘the plan’? Is it not what you want?”

He does a good me impersonation at that point and just looks at me, staying silent. He shrugs, and that’s the end of it. I’m probably overreacting.

“But what about you?” he says, gesturing to the disaster zone in front of us. “What will you do next, if I’m off at uni?”

I have, of course, contemplated what my life will look like without Charlie. I’d assumed I would have to learn how to deal with long and lonely nights in the cottage—but at least I don’t have that to worry about anymore. I have no idea what life has in store for me and don’t want to add to any of his stress.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I reply, frowning. “It’s a bit of a coin toss between international espionage and resuming my old career as an ice dancing champion.”

“Or working at a carpet company?”

“No, that sounds too exciting.”

He laughs and takes the water bottle back from me. He doesn’t know about my job situation, and I don’t plan to enlighten him anytime soon. There are enough uncertainties in his life at the moment without adding anything else to the mix, and anyway, even I don’t know what will happen yet. Maybe it will all be okay—because everything has been going so swimmingly recently.

“Shall we pack in for the day?” I ask. “I’m pretty wiped out and I wouldn’t mind seeing if the launderette is open, or if the hotel can stick some of these clothes in the wash for me.”

“But why? Barb’s stuff really suits you. I especially liked that blouse with the lace collar and the built-in pink bow tie.”

“I rest my case... Come on, we’ll call in and see if Luke is in. He might well have fled the county by now.” We grab our bags and heave ourselves up and start the trek across the field. I see the donkeys are out, no worse for wear, and grazing in their enclosure. One of them spots us approaching and lets out the world’s biggest bray, alerting the herd.

As we arrive at the motorhome, I see that Luke is most definitely in. To be precise, he is outside, manning a small barbecue, a table and chair set up in the shade of a green-and-white-striped extended awning. There is music playing, something soulful from the Motown era, and the whole scene is one of perfectly content domesticity.

Betty jumps up and gallops over to us, dashing around Charlie’s ankles and making yipping noises, apparently pleased to see us. Luke waves and shouts a greeting.

He’s wearing khaki combat shorts, the kind with big pockets, and a T-shirt that advertises a surf shack. He smiles, and his whole face changes. He’s not exactly handsome—he’s a little too weather-worn for that—but the smile is world-class. I am surprised by how much it affects me, that smile—the way it transforms him from the grumpy stranger he used to be to the Good Samaritan he has become. And, if I’m being totally honest, a pretty hot Good Samaritan.

“I was just burning some food,” he says, gesturing at the barbecue with his tongs. “Can I tempt you to join me?”

“Yes!” says Charlie, before I can even consider replying. Charlie is hungry—what a surprise. He pulls a face at me and takes off with Betty, the two of them chasing each other around the grass. It’s wonderful to watch, and I love the way one small dog has turned him back into a child.

“Only if it’s no bother,” I add. “I’m assuming you weren’t expecting guests, and it’s no problem if you only have enough food to burn for one.”

“Nah, it’s fine—I was out hunting this morning.”

“Right. The wild savanna or the supermarket?”

“That farm shop on the main road. I am fully stocked on burgers, steak, and salmon fillets. Watch this, and I’ll get you a chair.”

He passes me the tongs and disappears off inside the van. I make an exploratory poke at the cooking meat and see that he was lying. He isn’t burning it—in fact, it’s a nice-looking piece of steak that has obviously been marinated in something extremely tasty. Bit of a sneaky gourmet barbecue vibe going on. I find my mouth watering and realize that I am doing a Charlie.

Luke emerges with a fold-out chair and sets it up for me next to his.

“I only have one spare,” he says apologetically. “Don’t often have visitors. Beer?”

“The answer to that is always yes.”

He grins and pulls a can from a mini-fridge he has tucked away by the steps. He adds a couple of burgers and some salmon to the barbecue and sits down next to me.

“How does this thing work?” I ask, frowning.

“Ah. Good question. Well, there’s this little gadget on the top called a ring pull, and if you tug it, an opening appears. Then you put the can to your lips and drink it. Does that help?”

“Ha-ha, very funny. I meant the motorhome, van, whatever you call it—do you have electricity? And, like, a toilet?”

“I do have a toilet, and you are more than welcome to avail yourself of the facilities. And this is most definitely a motorhome, not a camper van.”

“Is there a big difference?”

“Oh yes. You could actually get shot in the motorhome community for making that mistake.”

“There’s a motorhome community?”

“Yeah. It’s like the Illuminati. On wheels. So a camper van is a van that’s been modified and had a bed put in, like that. A motorhome is specifically designed and built to be what it is. You can hook it up to a power supply, either on a site or anywhere with electricity if you have the right adapter, and then you can run on what’s called the leisure battery for a while. I mix and match between official sites and places like this, where I have access to some facilities but get my own space.”

I nod, pretending I understand. In truth, I’m not the world’s most practical person, and he pretty much lost me at adapter . “Right. Well, I’ll probably still call it a van, because it’s shorter.”

“True. It saves you a whole two syllables.”

“So how do you wash and stuff, in a van—motorhome?”

He sniffs his own armpits and replies: “What are you trying to tell me? There is actually a shower room in there. There’s a water tank, which I fill up when needed, and a water heater and a pump, and that means I have a shower and a sink and all the usual stuff.”

“Wow. Just like magic.”

“Well, it is a bit magical, to be honest—the freedom of it. The independence. Having to think about what you really need in your life rather than just being surrounded by... stuff. Though I realize that might be a sore spot for you right now.”

I sip my beer, and listen to the music, and feel the warmth of a sunny day on my skin. I look at Charlie, gamboling around with a cute dog as though he is five again, and smile.

“Well, it probably should be—but I am choosing to live in the moment. Right now, this is nice. So I will accept the magic, even if it’s only for half an hour. We’ve lost a lot, but we still have what matters. At least that’s how I feel right now, sitting here drinking a beer. That might only last for five minutes, though, I warn you. It’s unpredictable, to be honest—I’m fine, and then I’m spiraling into a flat panic, remembering a new thing we need every second, and freaking out about what happens next.”

“And what does happen next?”

“I don’t know,” I reply, shaking my head. “I suppose I need to find somewhere else to rent, but that’s all a lot more complicated than it sounds.”

“Anyone you can stay with? Family?”

“Also a lot more complicated than it sounds.”

“Ah. I get it. What has Bob said?”

“Bob has passed me on to the welfare team. They’re really nice, and they’re trying to find me some emergency accommodation because, you know, we can’t stay at a service-station hotel forever... but I’m a bit worried about that. I know what emergency accommodation can look like, and I don’t think I can cope with that. With a hostel, or a group home. Been there, done that, don’t want to buy the T-shirt.”

“Why would you, when the one you’re wearing is so very awesome?”

I glance down at my own chest and am reminded that I am modeling one of Barb’s finest—pink background, decorated with two cartoon hedgehogs canoodling and the words “All you need is love.” Huh. Maybe she’s right. Love and maybe beer. I suppose “All you need is love, beer, a washing machine, a TV, and a roof over your head” would be too long for a T-shirt slogan.

“I found some clothes,” I reply. “Just need to get to the launderette, maybe tomorrow now. Except I also need to go into work. And look after Charlie. And sort out a million things. I think my head might be about to explode.”

“Don’t let it do that,” he says gently. “You might splatter the steak. Look, I know this is hard—terrible in fact. But it’ll all be okay in the end. I’m guessing you’ve already overcome a few obstacles in life, and this is just the latest. We’re resilient, we humans. Take each day as it comes.”

“Yeah. I know. I’m trying. Mindfulness and all that. Except I always find myself thinking—if you’re super mindful, and live in the present, and don’t worry too much about the future, then eventually you’ll run out of clean undies...” I am rambling, and I’m not sure if it’s because of the heat, the beer, the circumstances, or the simple fact that someone is being kind to me.

“So,” I say, trying to rein myself in a little, “what led you to this way of life, Luke? How did you end up as an old man of the road, traveling life’s highways in a van... I mean, motorhome?”

“Less of the old, please; I’m forty-three. And that is a long story, for another time. Let’s just say that I reached a crossroads, much like the one you’re facing. A moment when everything changed and I had to make some hard choices. It didn’t feel like it at the time, but it was the best thing that ever happened to me. This lifestyle... well, it’s not for everyone, and it’s maybe not forever, but it’s right for me, at this stage. Plus, I’m an adrenaline junkie, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tried to get one of these babies down a narrow country lane, let me tell you...”

He hasn’t actually answered my question in any meaningful way, but he has avoided it skillfully. He is a bit of a pro at that, I suspect. I am consumed with genuine curiosity, but understand that some things are just too difficult to talk about.

He gets up and moves the food around on the grill, a pop and a sizzle sending up delicious aromas. He puts the steak out onto a plate, adds some salad and a roll, and shouts Charlie over.

Charlie responds in exactly the same way as Betty, running at speed, nostrils twitching. His ears aren’t as long as a dachshund’s, though, so he can’t pull off the cute flapping thing that she does.

He takes the food and collapses down onto the grass a little way off. His face is red from the sun and the playing, and he swipes sweat from his forehead as he says thank you. I feel a momentary stab of guilt that Luke has given Charlie the posh meat, but that is wiped away when I see how happy it makes my son. He practically cries with joy, muttering about how good it is as he eats. He is easily pleased when it comes to food and has enjoyed being in a hotel, but this is next-level stuff.

“So,” says Luke, sitting down again. “I found some of your things. I went for a walk down on the beach this morning to see what was what.”

“Oh gosh, maybe I should have done that too... What did you find?”

I am silently hoping it was something useful, and not my fifth-best underwear or a toilet brush.

“It was all pretty grim, to be honest. The council people took away the big items, but there’s still some wreckage. Garden furniture, some pillows, what looks like the remains of some kitchen chairs. Nothing that can be salvaged, I’m afraid. But I did manage to gather up some of your photos—after the storm settled, a lot of them seemed to land down there. Pretty muddy, but okay once they dried out. Plus I found a tied-up carrier bag that seems to be full of documents.”

“Ah,” I reply, feeling a spike of relief, “you discovered my filing system! That has our passports in it, which is brilliant. And photos... well, that’s even better. Thank you so much. I am so grateful for everything you’ve done. You didn’t need to bother with any of that, and I really appreciate it. We wanted to get you a present, but we didn’t know what you’d like.”

“You’re very welcome. Living my old-man-of-the-road lifestyle, it’s nice to have a bit of company.”

“Do you get lonely? You don’t seem like you’re lonely. You seem... self-sufficient?” I babble.

He grins, and the crinkles around his green eyes deepen. “Yep, that’s me. A self-sufficient old man of the road. You make me sound like one of those survivalists who lives on a mountain and shoots squirrels for dinner...”

“Well, if the baseball cap fits...”

He laughs, then stands up and sorts out the burgers. He hands me a plate, and I force myself to pause, fighting the urge to stuff the whole thing into my mouth at once. I can be classy like that.

We eat, and he gets another couple of beers, and I see that Charlie is stretched out in the sun, Betty curled up next to him. He’s looking at his phone, and I swear it looks like Betty is as well.

“Lonely is a difficult one to define,” Luke continues, leaning back in his chair, “and I don’t think you can tell from looking. Just because I live alone doesn’t make me lonely. And just because people are married or live in big families doesn’t mean they’re not. You can be surrounded by people who love you and still feel lonely, you know?”

I nod. I do know. I am also now fizzing with curiosity—what is this man’s backstory? Why does he live like this? What happened to make him choose this path? And really, why is it any of my business? It’s not, I know, but I find him deeply interesting—he’s gone from being a surly almost-neighbor to this real-life heroic figure who not only pulled me back from a cliff edge but is being so very kind.

“Yes, I do know,” I reply. “You’re right. I’ve raised Charlie on my own for most of his life, and I love him to bits. Can’t imagine being without him. But there have been times—nights, mainly—where it’s been lonely, even when he’s lying in the next room. You see other parents at school, and it feels like there’s always two of them and one of you. You go on holidays, and the whole place seems full of neat little family units. Even though, again, you can’t tell from looking, other people seem to have these perfect lives, while I’m just scrabbling along doing my best on my own. I wonder sometimes if I should have tried harder to meet someone else, to build a better family for him, if I’ve let him down in some way...”

“All parents think that. All parents feel guilty, either for the stuff they have done or the stuff they think they should have done. In fact, I’d make a claim that guilt is the sign of a good parent—it shows you give a damn. And Charlie doesn’t seem to be doing too badly, does he, despite your many failings?”

I pause and stare at Luke, pointing one finger. “You are too wise, and too kind, and too good to be true,” I say. “Are you secretly a serial killer who keeps rope and duct tape on hand at all times?”

“Funnily enough, I do have rope and duct tape on hand at all times—pretty essential kit in a motorhome—but I use it more for minor repairs and hanging out washing than anything criminal. Another beer?”

I really, really want to say yes. I could easily stay here, in this little bubble of calm and music and sunshine, pretending that I’m just another person enjoying a lazy Sunday afternoon with a friend. Pretending that everything is okay. Pretending that I’m not homeless, possibly soon to be jobless, and most definitely clueless.

“Thanks, but no,” I reply. “This has been lovely, and thanks again for all of your help. I’ve got the money I owe you, and thanks for that too—it was a bit of a lifesaver. But I think it’s time to call for a taxi—you won’t know this, but there are only about three in the whole of town and it might take a while—and head back to our temporary digs.”

He nods and says he’s going to fetch the photos and other items he found for me.

I walk over to Charlie and poke him in the ribs with my toe. He’s half asleep, his hair splayed over his face.

“Time to go, sleepyhead,” I say. “These clothes won’t wash themselves.”

He groans and rubs his eyes with his fingers. “Do we have to go? It’s nice here... even nicer now there’s a proper view out to the sea and no cottage blocking the way...”

I glance out toward the cliffs. He’s actually right—you can see for miles, the waves a glittering swell of blue rolling away to the edge of the world. Seabirds are wheeling in the sky, and you can smell the salt, and it is idyllic. Tears sting the back of my eyes as I am washed with unexpected grief. This was my home, and now it is not.

Like Luke said, I am sure I will overcome this. I will rebuild. But it is hard, knowing that I have to leave all of this behind.

“Sadly, love,” I say, tearing my eyes away from the coast I have lived beside for so long, “we do.”