Chapter 11
We spend the night parked up on an isolated field in the midst of sweeping mountains and conifers. The lake itself is perfection—quiet, secluded, chilly even after a day of sun. It really is easy to feel completely disconnected from the real world that we know exists around us.
After getting permission from the landowner, we settle on a spot that is surrounded by hills, sheep our only neighbors. There is no traffic nearby, no other people, nothing but us and this primeval landscape. We hire kayaks, and eat, and lie around on grassy banks, and talk of everything and nothing. It is the warmest it has been so far this summer, and it feels inconceivable that the storm that caused so much destruction happened in the same universe.
Much of the area around the lake is traffic-free, so we make the short hike back to the van as the sun starts to sink, and Luke grills up some fish on the barbecue. He’s quite the chef, I have discovered, having mastered the art of cooking on the move. I had years in an actual house with a full-sized kitchen and never made much progress. After our meal, we settle into a mutual silence. Charlie is sprawled on the grass, looking at his phone. Luke is playing his guitar, picking out tunes that I half recognize. I am writing—another review of our day.
“What ya doing, Mum?” Charlie shouts up, without ever taking his eyes from the screen. Who says the younger generation can’t multitask?
“Being all creative and stuff. That piece I wrote yesterday has been quite popular.”
“Wow—are you, like, Insta-famous now?”
“Yeah. I broke the internet by describing the toilet facilities in Malham. But, well, it got a little thumbs-up sign from a lot of people, and some nice comments saying how well I’d brought it to life. The whole thing, not just the toilets.”
I steel myself for the inevitable mockery, but I am actually quietly proud of myself. I enjoyed writing it, and the fact that people enjoyed reading it is a bonus. It feels nice, gives me a tiny warm glow inside. Writing again feels a bit like coming home, rediscovering part of me I assumed I’d lost.
“That’s great,” Charlie replies, surprising me by not taking the piss at all. “You should set up a blog or whatever. Chronicle our amazing journeys... You could call it ‘The Lady in the Van’ or something.”
I meet Luke’s eyes and we both smile. Uncultured youth.
“I think that’s already been done, love... Plus, I don’t know how to do things like ‘set up blogs or whatever.’ You know I can barely manage WhatsApp.”
Charlie sits up, and Betty looks at him disapprovingly. She was sitting on his chest after all. “I’ll do it for you. I’ll make you a page, keep it simple, so just do some words and maybe pictures and then I can upload them. It’ll be fun. I can look back on it when you’re old and I’m changing your diapers and say, ‘Ah, well, she wasn’t always like this...’”
“You should,” adds Luke, before I can reply to the diapers comment. “I read it. You’re a good writer. You have a way of making things feel vivid. And you’re funny too. It could work.”
Huh. He’s read it, and he liked it—for some reason that gives me a little glow of pride.
“Yeah,” says Charlie, now looking even more interested. “I can set up some social media around it—Insta and Twitter and TikTok.”
“Easy there, tiger—that doesn’t sound like me at all!”
“It wouldn’t need to be you. It would be me, in disguise. Family effort—me, you, and Luke.”
There is a slight pause right there, in our chatter and in Luke’s guitar playing. A family effort. We have not been together for long, but I know what Charlie means—and I’m not entirely sure how I feel about it. This is temporary. This is transient. This is fun—but it is not family.
Charlie seems unaware of what he has said and blusters on, planning world domination and sponsorship deals: a book, a TV show, a collection of Luke’s recipes. He has a whole franchise planned within minutes, while I’m still reeling from the fact that he now seems to see Luke as part of our family. I know Charlie has always wanted more—always wanted a bigger family unit. I wonder if that is why he has fallen so easily into this, accepted our changed circumstances with such apparent nonchalance. He’s taken to Luke with such speed and such ease, and to be fair, I can totally understand that—so have I. But for Charlie, I wonder if it is more. If Luke is somehow becoming a father figure to him?
I’m also finding it strange that neither of us seems to be missing our old life. That neither of us has yet had a swearing fit because of something we lost in the storm, or had a meltdown about being so unmoored, so unsettled. What does it say about our old life that we both seem to have abandoned it so readily? If you’d have asked me what our life looked like before the day of the storm, I’d have said it was good, content. There were worries, there were anxieties, but I didn’t feel like they were dominant. I think, with a bit of space and distance, that I now see I was fooling myself—I was riddled with tension and could never even imagine a way out. I told myself I was happy. I told myself it was how I wanted my life to be. I told myself it was the best thing for Charlie. Now I am starting to wonder if that could have possibly been the case—I am not missing a single thing about home and am pondering whether it was all style over substance. Having a pretty garden does not make your life perfect, and losing everything has made me realize that I actually had little to lose. As for Charlie, there has to be more to his newfound bounce than the usual carefree approach to life that teens can have—maybe he was ready for a change too.
I don’t have time to process any of it, because Charlie has already decided that this is game on and disappears back inside the van to start looking at domain names. Wowzers.
After he has gone, I turn to Luke and say: “I think he’s wasted going into science. He should be doing business studies.”
“Can’t knock his enthusiasm. He might be right, you know—you should give it a go. If nothing else, you’ll enjoy it. Charlie was telling me that you used to want to be a writer. Maybe it’d be good to find your passion for it again.”
I am momentarily disconcerted by the idea of Charlie chatting to Luke, letting him in on all my guilty secrets. But Charlie is an easygoing lad, open, full of warmth—it doesn’t surprise me that he is finding this easier than I am. He has had less time on the planet to develop calluses, to understand the need for self-protection.
“Passion? I’m not sure that’s the right word. Anyway, what about you? What’s your passion?”
“You’re trying to change the subject. This isn’t about me. But, to answer your question, I don’t know yet what my passion is. I’m still looking, and in the meantime, I settle for contentment. But is he right? Is that what you wanted to do?”
“Many years ago. Before real life took hold. Then it just seemed... silly.”
“Well, maybe this is your chance to revisit it. This is hardly real life, is it? You’re taking a vacation from real life. And doing something you love, something you’re obviously good at, is far from silly.”
“Thank you, Yoda. And you? Is this a vacation for you as well?”
I know, of course, that this is a way of life for him—but he is usually alone. Is the fact that we are with him changing things for him as well?
“Again, I don’t know, Jenny. Having you two with me... yes, it makes everything feel different. More fun. More... happy, I suppose. But I also know it’s not permanent. I know you’ll find your feet again, and we’ll part ways, and I’ll... well, I’ll probably go back to doing what I was doing before.”
He doesn’t exactly sound sad as he says this—more resigned. As though he knows that’s what he deserves. We are both at such strange junctions in our lives.
I look around, at the majestic hills and the lush trees and the dome of silence that seems to surround us, and acknowledge that he has a point. “It’s not permanent, is it? It’s still so warm as well. It’d actually be nice to sleep outside.”
“You can. I have groundsheets, sleeping bags. I’ve done it myself a few times. You wake up coated in dew and with a few new insect friends, but it’s a pretty special experience. What do you say? It’d make a good entry on your new blog!”
I snort with laughter, but nod my agreement. When I was younger, I did this a lot, and since then I have spent a few nights in tents with Charlie, but I have never gone full wild camper since he was born. Perhaps this is the time to try again. I might as well cram in as many new experiences as I can before I have to face up to the reality of boring things like jobs and houses, and finding one of each.
I carry on writing, wondering as I type each word whether Charlie and Luke are right, or if they’re just being kind—indulging me in this childish pursuit. I decide that I should just continue doing it while it’s bringing me pleasure, which is a luxurious way of viewing anything at all, and one usually associated with the consumption of chocolate éclairs.
Before too long, Luke emerges with arms full of equipment. He spreads it all out, setting up a sheet and a bag on each side of the table.
“Charlie says he might join in, so I told him where the stuff was.”
“Another amazing hidden storage unit?”
“Yes. Under my bed. I now call it Larry.”
“We really should have a name for the motorhome, you know...”
“That’s true. It’ll come to us, I’m sure. I might not stay out the whole night, but I’ll join you for a while. Still writing?”
“Just finishing,” I say, closing down the laptop. It is almost eleven and I am exhausted. “I was just describing that stone circle we called at on the way, Castlerigg. It was pretty amazing, but...”
“Pretty full as well? Yeah. I reckon those places are best seen very early in the morning or later at night. Because few things don’t say mystic quest as well as coachloads of pensioners in sun hats.”
He is, of course, right, and I vow to go back there and do it when it is quiet, so I can get a better handle on these ancient folk and their stone shenanigans.
I head inside the van and do my ablutions, check in with Charlie, who is now firmly cozied up with Betty, and get into my PJs. There is a slightly awkward moment when Luke and I have to slide past each other on my way out and his way in, and he emerges with a bottle of fine-looking whisky and two glasses.
“Nothing like a nightcap under the stars,” he says as we both settle into our sleeping bags.
I have my nice notepad and a gel pen by my side in case I get hit by sudden inspiration. I have become a proper prima donna.
“Ha! That sounds like the start of a blog post if ever I heard one!” I reply, scribbling it down.
“See? You’re a natural. Now, I know you’re probably already thinking that you don’t need that sleeping bag, that it’s too warm, but take it from a man who’s made the same mistake—you do. If you drift off to sleep outside it, you’ll wake up cold and in the grasp of a nightmare at three. Then all of this silence won’t be pleasant, it’ll be horrifying.”
He passes me a glass, and I take a sip. It is smooth but fiery, sliding down my throat with reckless ease.
“So, first brandy, and now this. Do you have a secret liquor cabinet called Clive I don’t know about?”
“It’s not a secret, but it is in my bedroom. Help yourself whenever you feel the need. I don’t have it on display in case I come across like an alcoholic in charge of a large vehicle. That’s never a good look.”
I have noticed that he is very careful with the booze, which is probably for the best when you have a magical mystery tour to face the next morning. I wonder briefly about how difficult it would be to upgrade my license so I could help with the driving, then remind myself that we won’t be together for that long. Just a week or two, we said, didn’t we?
But as I lie back and look up at the night sky, I simply can’t imagine what might come next. How this could ever be allowed to end. The heavens are pure black, dotted with more stars than I have seen in one place for a very long time. Even in our old home, the nearby town had an effect; here, there are no big settlements in the vicinity, no road lights, nothing to pollute the view. It is like being covered with a vast and dazzlingly beautiful blanket, all made of twinkles. It feels like I could float off into it, and I place my hands on the warm grass to ground myself.
“Amazing isn’t it?” Luke says, noticing my reaction. “Easy to forget how big the world is sometimes.”
“I know. It’s... well, I think maybe it’s changing me a bit? This whole ‘being in the big world’ thing,” I say hesitantly.
“How so?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I think maybe I’m only just starting to realize how tied up in knots I was. I was always worried about money, about Charlie, about work, about the bills and the house and the future and the past. I don’t think I understood how special it could be to just slow down, look around, look up... just be, you know?”
“I do. Totally. And all of those things you were worried about were real, and life is hard sometimes, but the value of just standing still is very underrated. We’re always in such a rush—what’s next, what do I need to do, to achieve, to fix. Nights like this kind of calm you down—there is nothing so big, so important, that those stars up there haven’t seen it a million times. That was a big lesson for me as well.”
I turn over onto my side and look at him between the table legs. He is lying on his back, staring at the sky, his arms folded beneath his head. “How did you end up living like this?” I ask. “If you don’t mind talking about it.”
He turns his head and smiles slightly, the merest crooked lift of his lips. “I don’t mind talking about it, but it’s not an easy tale. You might hate me afterward.”
“Impossible,” I respond firmly.
He gazes at me for a few moments, as though trying to weigh up the truth of that one word. “I don’t think so,” he says sadly. “I think I might hate myself after I tell you, at least.”
I can hear in the tone of his voice that he means it, that he is genuinely worried that what he has to say will horrify me. Perhaps, like myself, he has been enjoying this vacation more than he expected and is reluctant to unbalance it. “If you don’t want to talk about it, you don’t have to. I understand. We all have our pasts, our secrets, things we’ve done that we’re not proud of. But I will say this—what we were in the past isn’t necessarily what we are now. Hearing about the old Luke won’t make me hate the new Luke.”
“Okay,” he says eventually. “Here goes nothing... and it’s definitely not a time of my life I’m proud of. After we lost Katie, my wife, Sally, and I tried really hard, but something was broken between us. We’d had years of battling that illness. Our whole lives became dominated by it—caring for Katie; in my case, working, dealing with treatments and hospital stays and doctor’s appointments, and spending hours on the internet looking for miracle cures. We did everything we possibly could, but in the end, that was all that was left of us. When we didn’t have Katie, we didn’t have anything. It was like the glue that held us together had just... melted away.
“We met a lot of other families during it all; some were solid as a rock, others you could see the cracks. When it all first started, after the diagnosis, I was convinced that we’d definitely fall into the rock category. And while Katie was around, we did—for her sake, I think. Then, afterward... well. We were both empty, both damaged beyond repair. We talked about separating, but neither of us was quite ready to let go, even though it might have been less painful for us both if we had. I channeled all of that grief into two things: working and being an absolute bastard.”
My eyes widen in surprise. I have not known Luke for very long, but that doesn’t sound like him at all. “Really?” I ask. “In what way?”
“I’d stay out for days, some of it because I was putting in insane hours at the office trying to make myself feel better by making yet more money. I worked in finance, and I’d always been good at it, and... well, I was used to succeeding, you know? Used to getting my own way. I was a total stereotype—flashy cars, big house in Surrey, holidays in the Caribbean, complete corporate bullshit. The whole thing with Katie made me realize that no matter how much money I had, I couldn’t fix everything. But that particular nugget of wisdom took a while to register—at first, I was even more ambitious, even more driven.
“Looking back, it was just an excuse not to go home. Not to be in the house where we’d raised her, not to walk past her bedroom. Not to be sucked inside and sit for hours on her bed, holding her cuddly toys, inhaling the sheets that smelled of her... not to have to see the pain on Sally’s face, or to deal with her grief when I couldn’t even shoulder my own. We were both suffering so much, but we just couldn’t reach out to each other. And that’s when the cheating started.”
He glances over at me, and I see the sadness and shame on his face. The judgment he has already made about himself, the pain that is still there, just beneath the surface. I stay silent—there is nothing I could add at this stage that would make him feel better, and anyway, I suspect he doesn’t want me to even try.
“It was meaningless stuff,” he continues. “One-night stands. Again, any excuse to stay away—to go to their place, or a hotel, or, on one insane occasion, the boardroom... ridiculous. I don’t even recognize myself when I think about all of that. It’s like watching someone who has stolen my body do all those stupid and hurtful things.”
“I don’t recognize that version of you either,” I say, reaching out to briefly pat his arm. I feel the need to console him, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t shocked. I simply can’t imagine him behaving like that, when all I’ve seen of him has been kind and honorable.
“Well, that version of me existed, and he did a lot of damage. Sally wasn’t stupid; she knew I was pulling away. She never challenged me on it, even though part of me wanted her to. I don’t know why. But eventually, maybe because of some hidden death wish, I got careless—charged a hotel to our joint credit card. Along with champagne and chocolates. I’ll never forget the look on her face when I walked into the kitchen and she was sitting there at the table, holding that innocent-looking sheet of paper. A sheet of paper that destroyed whatever we had left.”
“Was she angry?” I ask, thinking it’s a silly question as soon as it leaves my mouth.
“That’s the thing—she wasn’t. Angry would have been better. It would have been easier if she’d thrown plates at me, called me names, cut up my suits with garden shears... anything that indicated she still cared, that there was still some passion left—still something to fight for. Anything other than what I saw—which was sadness and hurt and disappointment. Mainly, underneath all of that, resignation. She’d known, really, what was going on—but, either consciously or not, she’d turned a blind eye to it. Then I forced her into a position where she couldn’t ignore it anymore. I broke her heart, or at least the pieces of it that were left after Katie.
“We have moved past it—she’s remarried, has a beautiful little boy; we are still friends. You don’t go through what we went through and just abandon each other—we will always share the memory of Katie. But still—I will never, ever forgive myself for it. It was brutal.”
I have never met Sally, but I have been on the other end of heartbreak. Of that loneliness and pain. On top of losing a child, it must have been intolerable—for both of them. Rob left me battered and wounded, but I still had my child, and I still had hope. My heart bleeds for Sally—but the big difference here is that Luke is so clearly devastated by what he did. The fact that she has forgiven him speaks to both her kind spirit and his genuine regret.
“Luke, that’s horrible. But you were wounded, insane with grief...”
“All of that is true, but the way I handled it... well, as I said, I’ll never forgive myself. I don’t deserve to forgive myself.”
So much is becoming clear to me now: his lifestyle, the spartan existence, the way he has effectively put himself in solitary confinement. It’s not that it makes him happy—it’s that he thinks he doesn’t deserve to be happy. I am horrified by the things he did, but I can still feel his pain, see the way he is suffering.
“So Sally has forgiven you?”
“I think so,” he replies, smiling. “I’m the godfather to her son, at least, which is a good sign.”
“So she’s the one you were talking about that day? The person you loved but you’d hurt? The person who helped you when you needed it?”
“Yes. She’s the one.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman.”
“She was... She is...”
“Then maybe you should trust her judgment?” I say quietly. “If she’s forgiven you, maybe it’s time to start forgiving yourself?”
I wonder, as I say this, how I would have reacted if Rob had ever asked my forgiveness—if I would be as open to it. I’ll never really need to know, because it simply never happened. Rob is not built from the same stuff as Luke.
He turns to meet my eyes, and there is a moment of connection there that is so deep and genuine that it terrifies me. I want to get up and run for my emotional life.
“That,” he replies, “sounds like a very wise idea. Maybe I’ll manage to try it someday. So, in response to your original question—you definitely got more than you expected with that one, didn’t you?”
“I did. But that’s okay. Please carry on.”
“Well, after that, I moved into a hotel for a while. I continued to be the high priest of self-destruction, until I hit rock bottom. I woke up naked in Regent’s Park, without my clothes, wallet, watch, or briefcase. To this day, I have no idea what happened—but I do remember getting poked on the arse with a stick by an elderly woman walking her dog. It was one of those moments you don’t cast aside.”
“I can imagine.” But I’m lying here and I can’t imagine it. I can’t imagine this big, capable man so utterly stripped of dignity, in so much pain. It hurts to even picture it, and despite what he’s told me, I still feel overwhelmed with sympathy.
“Anyway, as wake-up calls go, that was a pretty spectacular one. I did some serious thinking about what I was doing with my life, and whether this was the kind of behavior Katie would want to see her dad indulging in. Once I phrased it to myself like that, it was easy—I shed my skin.
“I negotiated a payoff with the company I worked for, I sold the properties we owned, and Sally and I decided on divorce. I told her she could keep the house and gave her half of everything, even though she didn’t want it, and I bought the magnificent beast I now call home. The only things I kept from my old life were a few bits of Katie’s and the equally magnificent beast I share the motorhome with—Betty was Katie’s dog. She’d always begged for a puppy, but we were too busy. Then when she got ill, well... we just wanted to give her everything she asked for, you know? Slushies for breakfast, Kate Bush on repeat, a baby dachshund...”
“And how has it been since you left?” I ask. “You seem quite... content?”
“Yes. That’s a good word for it. Not exactly happy, but content enough. It took a while, and to start with I was very lonely. Especially on campsites, where you’re surrounded by happy families, you know?”
“Yes. I do know. That is a feeling I am very familiar with—everyone always seems so perfect, don’t they, on the outside looking in? I always felt like that when I went places with Charlie. Being a single parent is weird. Most people are friendly, but some women seem to feel like you want to steal their husbands—usually the overweight ones with beer bellies and England tattoos. Charlie would always try to pal up with other kids, but I always felt bad for him...”
“Did he seem to feel bad?”
“Well, no—but that’s what parents do, isn’t it? We blame ourselves for everything we perceive to be going wrong in our kids’ lives. And did you notice that thing earlier, where he called us a family? That freaked me out a bit.”
Now, more than before, I am conscious of the fact that Luke was once a father, and that being thrust into a makeshift family might be a complicated thing for him.
“I did notice,” he replies. “But don’t take it too seriously—it was just a turn of phrase. Fits his brand better!”
“I know, you’re probably right. But he has always wanted a bigger family. I’ve tried to be enough for him, but I know I’m not. I’m just one pretty ordinary woman.”
“You don’t seem that ordinary from where I’m standing... well, lying.”
“That’s the whisky talking. I am ordinary, and I don’t mind that. But he can be extraordinary, and it’s my job to make sure that happens.”
“Wow. I didn’t realize I was in the presence of God!”
“Oh shut up!” I say, throwing my pen at him. It hits him on the forehead and he feigns injury, which makes us both laugh and breaks what has become a slightly surreal mood.
“Well, what about your own family?” he says, once we have calmed ourselves down. “Isn’t he close to them?”
“Close?” I echo, turning onto my back and gazing back up at the sky, hoping that the stars will shine down some wisdom along with the silver and gold threads of light. “No. I wouldn’t say that. In fact, they don’t even know he exists.”