Chapter 8
Once we have made the decision, it is alarmingly easy to uproot our lives. I know this particular phase will only last a week or two, but I realize that I just can’t imagine myself coming back here. It’s as though something has switched off inside me, and I no longer see the cottage, or this town, as home—I’m not sure I see anywhere as home, which is strangely liberating.
I have accepted the layoff, declined new accommodation, and done everything I need to do. I have been out for a farewell drinks session with Barb and the rest of my colleagues, which ended with a terrible group rendition of “Don’t Stop Believin’” on the karaoke, and I have put Bob in touch with my landlord’s office so they can work together on clearing the site.
Charlie has made his farewells and we have arranged for any mail to be redirected to Barb’s house for the time being. The postman would really struggle delivering stuff to my old address, anyway, what with it not having a door anymore, never mind a letterbox.
I have had a very small shopping spree, buying myself a cheap laptop, getting Charlie some new sneakers, and getting us both headlamps—little lights attached to an elasticated headband. Luke assures me they are very useful, but I look so silly in mine that I wonder if it is some kind of prank. We needed a few practical items—extra bedding, as Luke is only equipped for one; toiletries that aren’t from a hotel room; new underwear, new pajamas. It will all be strange, living in a small space with someone we don’t know very well, and it will most definitely call for pajamas rather than my usual approach of sleeping in my birthday suit. I also find us some swimming gear, shorts, and in my case a couple of lightweight sundresses—our friendly neighborhood weatherman is now predicting a weeks-long heat wave and lots of the clothes we retrieved from the site were winter-wear, now kindly stored at Barb’s.
On a less practical level, I splash out on some posh rose hand cream, as everyone deserves a little luxury, and buy a couple of paperbacks from the charity shop. Charlie insists he is happy as long as his earphones are working, so I get him an extra set in case of emergency. He was always losing them at home; they used to live in tangled heaps under the sofa cushions, curled up like nests of snakes. The answer to the age-old question, “Have you seen my earphones?” was always, “Have you checked down the side of the sofa?” There will be fewer places for him to lose them in a motorhome, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he manages it.
In a fit of utter indulgence, I also pop into one of the town’s bijou gift shops and spend way too much money on a leather-bound notepad that has a little tasseled bookmark attached to it. The leather is dark green and engraved with a leaf design. It is a beautiful thing, and even though I have sworn off owning too many things in my brave new world, this one was irresistible. It is a Thing That Brings Me Joy, and as I run my fingers over its cover and sniff it, I feel that tinge of excitement I used to get as a little girl whenever I was starting a new notepad or opening a new set of felt-tip pens. Blank pages, waiting to be filled.
When I was a teenager, I often felt lonely—my brother was older and not interested in me, we lived in an isolated place, and, in time-honored tradition, I didn’t feel like my parents understood me. I had friends, but my real escape was my own imagination—I’d spend hours disappearing into it, writing my stories, doodling, making up spectacular events that might come along and transform my life. In later years, I’ve channeled a lot of that into imagining Charlie’s future life and into planning luxury fantasy holidays—but maybe now it’s time to let myself indulge a little. I think, also, I am acknowledging the fact that my life is made up of blank pages waiting to be filled. In less than a week, I have lost my job, lost my home, lost most of my possessions. As chances to recreate yourself go, this is top-level stuff. I feel strangely hopeful as we arrive at the motorhome, ready to embrace the unknown—or, at the very least, give it a friendly handshake and see where we go from there.
Charlie has been low-key excited about it all for the last few days, and I think this trip has given him something to focus on. He has chatted to his father about it, and Rob was full of enthusiasm—he is a man who has never truly settled down, so I’m not surprised. He’s been in Paris for two years, which is the longest he has lived in any one place since he left. Charlie hasn’t actually seen him for a decade, although they are in regular contact. It’s been a hard balance to find—not villainizing Rob in a way that would be unfair to Charlie, but also making it clear to Charlie that his father’s absence from his life isn’t his fault, that he shouldn’t feel any sense of rejection. He doesn’t seem racked with daddy issues thus far in life, so I hope that all these years of biting my tongue have been worth it.
We are dropped off in a cab at around 6:00 p.m. and plan to stay in the van overnight as a practice run. Assuming neither of us runs from it screaming, “I can’t take this—I feel like I’m trapped in a cave!” we will hit the road tomorrow. Yeehaw.
We find Luke inside, wearing his trademark Levi’s and well-washed rock T-shirt, cocooning mugs and plates in bubble wrap.
“Fellow travelers!” he says, holding a mug aloft. “The shutdown begins... Come on in.”
We don’t have a lot with us—the bedding and one small bag each—but it feels like we are overwhelming the living area.
Luke lifts up the banquette seat to reveal a large cupboard space beneath.
“I cleared this one out,” he says. “Thought you guys could use it for your things. This also pulls out into what will be your bed, Jenny. And, Charlie—you’re up top, I believe?”
“Yeah... can I go and see? Not gonna lie—insanely excited about living in a tiny man-cave with a ladder.”
Luke grins and points the way.
We both watch as Charlie clambers up the ladder with long limbs, Betty jumping up and yipping as he goes. I hear him squeal when he reaches the top, his feet disappear, and he shouts, “Awesome!”
“Okay, while he’s up there exploring—that should keep him busy for at least five minutes—how about I fill you in on some logistics?” Luke says.
I nod, and he gives me a tour of the vehicle, explaining as he goes how to operate the water pump and heater, how to use the weird toilet and the separate wet-room shower, how to use the kitchen appliances, and where all the various essential items are kept. There is a lot to take in, and I think I switch off after the first instruction.
“Um... I probably won’t remember all that, you know,” I say as he walks me outside to show me where the charging plug is and to give me a crash course in how the water tank works. I swear he calls something a whale, so in my mind the tank immediately becomes known as Moby Dick.
“I know,” he replies, smiling. “And you don’t need to. It’ll all sink in, bit by bit. We might have a few disasters along the way, but such is life...”
“What kind of disasters?” I ask, looking up at him. “Because you might be joking, but I am a disaster magnet right now. If there is a disaster lurking within a ten-mile radius, it will come flying toward me.” He glances over at the wreckage of the cottage and nods. Hard to argue the point.
“Well. Like I said, I’m an adrenaline junkie... but seriously, we’ll be fine. There is a thing you can do with the electrics on sites that can be pretty fun—all to do with using faulty appliances or the wrong voltages. It usually just trips out your own place, but I have been on sites where it’s knocked us all out. Hence the torches. Then there’s the tried-and-tested favorite of forgetting about Fiamma rails—the things that hold up the awnings—and them getting bent out of shape or even blown off in bad weather. It’s pretty easy to not notice you’ve left a skylight open, and once you’re driving along at speed, they can get into trouble. Then there’s the more mundane stuff—like running out of propane when you’re cooking, getting lost, getting stuck...”
I feel myself pale slightly as he lists these potential pitfalls, convinced that I will tumble spectacularly into every single one of them.
“The main thing to remember,” he says, reaching out and laying a reassuring hand on my shoulder, “is to try to enjoy yourself. Don’t think about the potential problems—think about the freedom, the fun, the wide-open spaces. And hey, if you don’t like it, I can just drop you off at the nearest service station!”
I am momentarily distracted by the touch of his skin against mine and realize that he hasn’t listed at least one of the possible disasters: all three of us living together in a space that is used to accommodating one man and one small dog. That will be a challenge for each of us in different ways, I suspect—I haven’t lived with a man for a very long time and even then not for long; Charlie has only ever shared a home with me. And Luke? Well, I realize, I don’t actually know—he lives like this now, but I assume he didn’t always. He said he had a big job and a different life and presumably all the trappings—house, car, maybe even wife.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I ask seriously. “You chose this lifestyle because you wanted to be alone, I presume.”
“I did,” he replies, nodding. “And that is a story for another day—or maybe a night, sitting out under the stars with a campfire and a guitar and a bottle of wine. But I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it. I’m not the sort of person who does things they don’t want to.” Our eyes meet, and nothing I see in his expression contradicts what he has said. I have to accept it and go into this whole adventure with an open mind.
“Okay, fine... though I might get you to sign some sort of disclaimer... Can I drive, by the way?”
“Probably not. It’s too big; you need a special addition to your license. But I’m okay with driving—I’m used to it. It’ll be nice to have company. The big decision is where we drive to. I came here from the south coast, I spent spring and the early part of summer in Kent and Essex. Where next... well, that’s the fun part!”
“What’s the fun part?” says Charlie, emerging from the motorhome. His hair is tousled and his cheeks are red; he has been having a good time, and all of the childlike glee makes him look a lot younger. “Did I miss the fun part? Because, I tell you, that little bed up there is pretty wild... I opened the skylight, is that okay?”
“That’s fine,” replies Luke.
“As long as you remember to close it before we set off,” I add wisely. I wink at Luke and add: “See? I was paying attention!”
“I never doubted it. What’s the name of those rails again?”
“Hmm... it begins with F , and I’m quite tempted to improvise here...”
“Don’t swear, Mum,” intercedes Charlie. “You’ll set a bad example.”
“Okay. So I am going to call the rails Frank. And the water tank thingummy is Moby Dick. And the cupboard under my bed is Susan.”
“Susan?” they both say.
“Yes. It felt like a Susan to me. I’m still waiting for the rest of the cupboards to tell me their names...”
“My bed is called Conan the Barbarian,” Charlie chips in, getting into the spirit of things.
Luke frowns, and I wonder if he is having second thoughts. Maybe we’re just too mad for him—he’ll be chucking us out at the next junction and leaving us in his dust.
“I think you’re onto something,” he says slowly. “In fact, it feels remiss that I’ve never done this before. I think that from this moment on, the toilet will be known as the Mona Lisa.”
“Oh. How cultured,” I reply. “What about the shower room?”
“Give the shower room a name? That would just be silly... So, where to?” he says with a smile.
Charlie holds up his hand, a bit like he is in school, and says: “I’ve got an idea about that!”
“Go for it, love,” I reply, genuinely warmed by the sight of his enthusiasm.
“Okay—well... you know how when it’s Christmas, Mum, and we watch a film together every night from Christmas Eve Eve through to Boxing Day Boxing Day?”
“The twenty-third to the twenty-seventh,” I clarify for Luke’s sake. Funny how families develop their own language after time, isn’t it?
Charlie continues: “Well, why don’t we do what we normally do then?”
“Write the names of films down on bits of paper and put them in a Santa hat?” I say, frowning. A little slug of sadness tries to slime its way into my mind; the Santa hat is long gone, of course, along with the DVDs and the TV and most of the Christmas decorations. I salt the slug and urge it to shrivel away.
“Kind of, yeah,” says Charlie. “What we could do is maybe each of us come up with a list of, like, five places, or books, or films, or food, or animals, whatever, that we enjoy. Then we draw them out and go there.”
“Well,” I answer, “I get it with places. Not sure how it’d work with the other stuff.”
“You’d have to be sensible, Mum,” he says, and I try to keep my face straight. Being told to be sensible by your eighteen-year-old son is quite something. “You couldn’t put something stupid like Gladiator... ”
“Hush your mouth, child. Don’t you dare say Gladiator is stupid—you know I have very strong feelings about that film. I will be the mother to a murdered son if you carry on with that nonsense.”
“I know. I don’t mean the film is stupid—obviously it’s one of the greatest films of all time—I mean if you put Gladiator , we couldn’t exactly drive to ancient Rome, could we?”
I have always wished that we could. I mean, imagine getting to be one of the spectators in the Colosseum? Watching Russell Crowe tart around in a skirt and having loaves of bread chucked at you? Throw in some tequila shots and it’s the perfect night out. It’d be super popular with hen parties.
“But,” I say, “we could go somewhere Roman—like Bath, or Chester, or Hadrian’s Wall.”
“Exactly! So if I put Jurassic World or whatever, we could go somewhere with fossils. We’d find a connection and go there.”
“What do you think?” I ask Luke, who has been watching our double act in amusement.
“I love it,” he says. “I might put some bands or songs in. And, actually, you know, just some places as well... Just bear in mind we might end up doing some crazy zigzags, if one is in Aberdeen and the next is in Cornwall and then it’s North Wales.”
“Let’s limit it to England then,” I reply, “and ban Cornwall, because it’s too far away and too isolated.”
It is also, I do not say, the place where I grew up. The place where my family, presumably, still lives. I am more than happy to ban it from our travels.
“Have you got a hat, though? That’s a very important piece of the puzzle...”
He laughs and assures us that he has a hat, and paper and pens and scissors, and also a whole collection of maps, guidebooks, and reference works about the sights, sounds, and animals of the UK that we can dip into for inspiration.
We chat for a few more minutes about practicalities—stopping off for food, gas, and water—and plan a last-night chippy run while we are still near civilization. Luke says it’s a tradition of his, and we can’t mess with tradition—it would be bad luck. He heads off on his bike to a small village a few miles away, ready to do some hunter-gathering that involves battered cod. While he is gone, Charlie and I unpack our few belongings, and I practice using the Mona Lisa and operating the shower. None of it is difficult, but it will take some getting used to.
When we are ready, I get out the bottle of fizz I have had chilling in the fridge and grab two glasses. Together, Charlie and I walk down to the place where our beautiful little home used to be.
The view is breathtaking—the sun dappling golden stripes on the waves, seabirds white smudges in a crystal-clear sky, the whole horizon stretching out endlessly before us. A perfect panorama.
I pour myself and Charlie a glass each as we stare out at the edge of the world. I remember all the days, months, years, of living here. Seeing Charlie grow up: his friends coming for sleepovers, the garden swarming with little princes and pirates at birthday parties. Quiet mornings with a good book and a pot of coffee on the patio. Baking wonky cakes, watching movies, puttering around with my plants. The challenges, the contentment, the sense of security it gave us.
“A toast to our former cottage,” I say, raising a glass at the rubble, the dumpster, the abandoned sofa. “May she rest in peace.”
“We had some great times here, Mum,” Charlie says sadly. “I can’t believe it’s really gone.”
“I know,” I say, giving him a cuddle. “But it’s time to move on—and we will have great times somewhere else, my love. I’m sure of it.”