Chapter 14
I am vaguely concerned that there will be some lingering awkwardness between me and Luke, and then tell myself off for being an idiot. Or a silly moo, as his gran might have said. Nothing happened—nothing at all. We barely held hands. Certainly nothing to worry about... and yet worry I do.
I suspect it’s not just awkwardness I am concerned about; it’s how it made me feel. The fact that it made me feel at all, perhaps. That part of me—the part that shares heated moments with handsome men in wild beauty spots on sunny days—isn’t just dormant; it’s dead. Or at least I thought it was.
The idea that it might have just been lying there, curled up in a sleeping ball waiting for its chance to jump up and ambush me again, is frightening. I am wary of such things—I am wary of romance, of love, of passion. Of my own inability to manage them. The last time I felt anything resembling this was almost two decades ago, and it did not end well. I know that I was only seventeen then, but still—I am aware of the frailty of my heart, and I do not want to risk it being broken, or even gently bruised. The rest of my life is topsy-turvy, and the least I can do is try to protect myself from any other potential pain. Luke is, in the nicest way possible, messing up all my usual settings.
If Luke is having any of these concerns at all, if he feels even slightly disconcerted by the Thing That Didn’t Happen but Might Have, he hides it well. We go back to Joy, and Charlie revels in the fact that we are in a suburb rather than a wilderness by ordering a pizza. The deliveryman is surprised to be knocking at the door of a motorhome, but it was a good call, as we are all by that time ferociously hungry.
As we eat, I check in on the Sausage Dog Diaries and read some of the comments that have been left about my earlier posts. I giggle at one that mentions a photo of Luke emerging bare-chested from a river.
“Hey, guys, there’s a new comment on the blog,” I say from my spot on the sofa. “ChazOnWheels666 says Luke is ‘pretty hot for an old man.’ Charlie, is that you?”
“What makes you think that?” he replies, grinning. “Sorry... couldn’t help myself!”
“Seriously? When are you going to stop with the old man line?” asks Luke. He is sitting on one of the front seats, which is swiveled around to face us, and he has a paperback in his hands.
“I don’t know—maybe when they invent a time machine?” says Charlie, winking. Cheeky. “Actually, Mum, have you seen that other comment? There’s one that asks why you’re doing the journey, and it has a lot of likes. Your public wants to know more about you.”
“My public?”
“Yeah. You now have over seven hundred followers—word has been spreading. Lily’s been doing loads of socials for you, and the blog’s even mentioned a few times on other forums. One describes it as a ‘lighthearted but vivid account of life on the open road.’ Get you.”
“Yikes. In all honesty, I’m a bit befuddled by all of this. I mean, I know Betty’s cute, but really... why do they want to know more about me?”
“You have to admit,” says Luke, laying the book down on his lap, “that it is a pretty good origin story. You literally couldn’t make it up.”
“Yeah, he’s right, Mum. Do a piece about it, and we’ll post it with some photos of the cottage—before and after shots. Seriously, it’ll be really interesting, and maybe you can make it sound all inspiring and shit?”
“All inspiring and shit? We lost everything!”
“Ah, but did we really?” he says mysteriously, and winks again. He must have something wrong with his eye.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, already doing exactly that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should put the whole Sausage Dog Diaries thing into context—it would certainly explain why I’m hitting the road and searching for my joy; being essentially homeless can be quite the catalyst when it comes to lifestyle changes.
Before long the exertion of the day catches up with us, and we start our usual nighttime routine—checking the windows and screens and blackout curtains are closed, taking turns in the Mona Lisa, getting changed in the still-woefully-unnamed shower room, turning the sofa into my bed, and taking Betty out for a piddle. It’s funny how all of these once alien actions have now become an effortlessly choreographed dance; it’s as though our bodies have adjusted to all the angles and spaces we share, adjusting to our new reality.
By the time everyone is settled and shouts their now-traditional good nights to one another, I lie awake with my laptop, the fairy lights still shining in the dim cabin. My mind drifts to Luke, alone in the double bed just meters away from me. I remind myself that my son is also in his bed, just meters away from me, and that even if he weren’t, it would make no difference. I am being self-indulgent.
I start drafting a blog post to distract myself and am surprised at how cathartic it is. It’s one of the reasons I always used to love writing—the way you could vent your emotions in a safe space, blow off mental steam, even if it used to be about far less serious things when I was a younger woman. I certainly never had to deal with cliff erosion and freak storms. If I’d been writing a blog back then, there probably would have been a lot fewer actual problems, but a lot more angst about the ones I did have. Maybe, I think, I’d have written one about my day in Oxford. I smile at the thought of the two versions of me in the same city, and how different those two points in my life were.
I cover everything from my bad news at work through to my car breaking down and getting home to find my refuge destroyed. It all sounds surreal even to me, and I was there for the whole thing. I explain how I ended up on this adventure, Luke’s kind offer, the way the three of us have become friends. I finish with a tribute to Betty, and how she is the ultimate icebreaker, the crusher of awkward moments, the glue that holds us all together. She is actually sleeping curled up on the end of my bed as I type, and I mention that as well, before I take a picture of her. She adores Charlie, but maybe I’m starting to win her over too.
I reread it and make a few tweaks before I send it to Charlie. People will either read it and go, “Ooh wow, what a mad thing to have happened,” or they will decide that I am living in some kind of delusion. I can’t control which and decide I will not read the comments on this one just in case.
I tuck the laptop away and roll over onto my back, staring at the roof of the van. I am exhausted, but I still can’t turn my mind off. It keeps sneaking away and running in the direction of Luke. I wonder if he is feeling any of this, and decide that he is probably not. Men don’t tend to operate on the same levels of crazy overanalysis as the female of the species.
Eventually, I manage to keep my eyes closed long enough to drift off, and ten minutes later, Betty wakes me up. Actually, I realize, as I sit up groggily, it is not ten minutes later—it is in fact around four hours later, and it is morning. Betty needs a wee-wee, and frankly so do I.
I tiptoe around as quietly as I can and then go outside with the dog. It is a lovely morning, not too hot yet, and I sit down on one of the camping chairs and admire the garden around us. It is a cultivated wild space, scattered with patches of long grass, gracefully swaying hollyhocks, and lusciously bright lupins. Aah , I think, I miss my lupins. Maybe I will get some potted plants for Joy. Nothing brightens up a home like flowers. Except, of course, Joy is not my home, and this is only temporary. This is transient, this is short-term, this is a holiday. I need to remember that.
Betty is prowling around the greenery, giving everything a good sniff, then comes hurtling back toward the van, her ears flapping. I hear the door opening behind me seconds after she has, and Luke emerges. He looks disheveled, a little tired, his T-shirt bunched up on one side.
He flops down next to me and runs his hands through his hair. Short as it is, it’s still somehow messier than usual, pushed into ridged tufts.
“Bad night?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Not the best. Must have been the pizza.”
Yeah , I think, that’ll be it.
He wipes the sleep from his eyes and gazes out at the garden, in that way people do when they’re not really seeing anything. Seems like we both struggled to get any rest, and now here we are, sitting awkwardly together looking like death warmed up in a microwave. It is, I think, silly. We are both grown-ups, and maybe need to sort this out. You simply can’t avoid each other when you are living like we do; there is no place to hide in a motorhome.
“Okay, so—I didn’t sleep well either,” I say quietly, on the unlikely off-chance that Charlie has crawled out of his pit. “I was a bit worried about... well, about us.”
He rubs his eyes yet again, then turns to face me. He looks sad, and I don’t like it. “Yeah?” he replies. “About yesterday? We had a bit of a moment, didn’t we?”
“That’s a good way of putting it. We did, and I’m not sure it would be a good idea to have another one. Those moments have a way of adding up and taking on a life of their own. I... well, I really like you, and Charlie really likes you, and this is working, isn’t it? Against the odds this is working.”
“And you don’t want to mess it up? Yeah, I get that. It was weird for me too. I’ve not exactly been a ladies’ man in the last few years, and that’s fine. That’s what I wanted—a bit of time off from myself. From all the mistakes I made. I’m not sure I deserve any ‘moments’ just yet...”
I recall the shame he still feels about his behavior after Katie’s death; the way he betrayed both his wife and his own sense of self. I hadn’t looked at it from that angle, and I can totally see why this has distressed him. He is going to be his own harshest judge until he feels able to let it go.
“Right,” I announce firmly. “Well, let’s just forgive ourselves yesterday’s one little blip, shall we? We’re only human. It’s natural to reach out every now and then; we’re not robots. There was no harm done, no taboos broken. I just wanted to clear the air about it. So are we good?”
He blows out a puff of air and nods. “We’re good,” he says finally. “And thank you. I’m not sure I’d have even talked about it. I’d have probably done the bloke thing and pretended nothing happened. This is better.”
He looks relieved, and I have the urge to reach out yet again—to touch his shoulder, to reassure him. That would, of course, be ironic in the extreme, and I resist.
“Excellent. Wow. We’re so mature, aren’t we?”
“We really are. We should probably get some kind of award. Coffee?”
“Always,” I reply and smile as Betty trots back inside at his heels.
I feel better for having discussed it, better for having set a few guidelines, but also... disappointed? I mean, what did I expect? For him to declare his undying love and say he wanted me desperately and that he couldn’t live without my touch? He is not that person—we are not those people. We are both wounded, both damaged, and it would potentially be a disaster. Besides, I’ve only known him properly for a few weeks—even if it does feel like a lot longer.
“Charlie’s up,” he says as he comes back out with the drinks. “And I warn you, he has the baseball cap.”
My son staggers down the steps, cap in one hand, can of Coke in the other, a Danish pastry stuffed in his mouth. Very efficient.
He puts the can down on the table and eats his pastry with alarming speed, then shakes the cap in front of our faces. He is wearing an Alton Towers T-shirt and his swimming trunks, and his hair is a mass of wild dark curls. These men need the attention of a barber as a matter of some urgency.
“Okay,” he says after his last swallow, “this has been grand, but I assume we’re not staying in a garden for any length of time. Next place soon. And, Mum, I posted your piece—it was really good. I especially liked the bit about the photos and why they made you so upset. It was really scary when you started chasing them all over the place, you know, but at least I kind of understand it a bit better.”
“I’m sorry, son,” I say sincerely. “I can see how frightening that must have been.”
“’S’okay. Luckily a big strong traveling man was around to rescue you, eh?”
His eyes flick from me to Luke, and I wonder if he overheard any of our conversation, or if he is simply wondering, simply curious. If he is even testing the waters on a spot of matchmaking. Charlie has never seen me with a man, never known me to be part of a relationship. I have no idea how he will really feel about it but remind myself that it’s not a pressing concern, as I remain resolutely single.
“Where are we off to?” Luke asks, changing the subject. Good man.
Charlie pulls out a scrap of paper and unravels it. He pulls a face, then looks at me and says, “Think this must be another one of yours, Mum. At least it’s not just something boring like ‘Manchester’ or whatever. Not that Manchester looks boring, but you know what I mean... Right, shall we get ourselves sorted? Start looking for a route with lots of weird stop-offs on the way?”
“That’s a great idea, Charlie,” I reply, trying not to laugh. “But it’s hard to look up the route when we don’t actually know where we’re going.”
“Oh! Yeah... forgot that bit. Well, apparently we’re going to Jane Austen—so good luck with that one. It is yours, isn’t it? Bet you only picked it ’cause of Colin Firth in his soggy pants. All the mums love that, don’t they?”
“Oh yes, they do,” I respond. Even mine.
I was young when it came out, that version of Pride and Prejudice , but I still vividly remember watching it with my mother, and her being very vocal in her appreciation of Mr. Darcy’s attributes. She was normally a very proper woman, but the power of the britches overcame her reserve.
“You go and sort yourself out,” I say. “I’ll find something that we can visit that connects to the wonderful Jane.”
“Okay,” Charlie replies, “cool. Don’t make it boring, though. Which will be hard, because Jane Austen is boring.”
“You are being really liberal with the boring word this morning, love. And Jane Austen, I assure you, is not. She was funny and insightful and clever. Only people who haven’t actually read her books say she’s boring.”
“If you say so. Laters.”
I turn to Luke and stare at him. “Are you about to say Jane Austen’s boring too? Because I will fight you.”
He holds up his hands in surrender and stands up. “No way! I can’t get enough of empire-line frocks and polite conversation with the vicar at the country dance personally... I’ll leave you to it.”
Once the philistines have departed, I start looking up locations on my phone. Top Jane Austen spots are scattered around a lot of southern England—Hampshire where she was born and lived most of her life; Reading, where she went to school; the Sussex coast; and, of course, Bath. I do a bit more scooting, looking at some of the settings for her books, and eventually find one that will be quick and easy and hopefully fun.
It takes another hour or so to all get dressed, clean up, and sort out Joy, and then we assume our positions. Luke maneuvers the van out of the garden and down the drive, pausing at the exit with the motor running. He turns around and shouts out: “Where to, Captain?”
“Box Hill in Surrey!” I say. “It’s only an hour and a half away, and it’s the place they had the picnic in Emma ! There are some nice walks and a cafe and a bookshop, and it’s near a place called Dorking...”
This is normally the part where Luke looks pleased, and excited, and gives me a jaunty salute. This is the part where the fun normally starts.
Except, this time, none of that happens. There is no grin, no salute, no reaction at all other than a frown. He seems deflated, his expression neutral, his tone flat as he responds: “Yep. I know where it is.”
He turns back around and starts driving.
I glance over at Charlie, who is on his phone and has not noticed this exchange at all. Something is wrong, I can tell, and I would dearly like to clamber up to the front of the van and sit in one of the passenger seats next to him. That is logistically impossible while we are driving, so I settle for asking: “Is that okay? I’m not really bothered about going there. We could go somewhere else, or skip Jane Austen entirely...”
“No. It’s fine,” he replies shortly. “I’m fine. I just need to concentrate.”
At this point, he switches on his music—Alice Cooper, insanely loud—and conversation is no longer possible. I stare at the back of his head. Even his shoulders look more tense than usual, and I spend the rest of the journey worried that I have somehow unintentionally upset him. That the conversation we had this morning didn’t go as smoothly as I had imagined. I realize that this is supremely arrogant, though, making everything about me, and wonder what else could be wrong.
The journey passes quickly, and we make the drive up a steep hill along a winding road and park. Betty jumps down out of the van and immediately starts sniffing the air, as though she is trying to find a trace of something. She runs over to Luke as soon as he climbs out and starts scooting around his ankles, making a high-pitched yipping sound I haven’t heard from her before.
Luke leans down, scratches behind her ears, and says: “I know, girl, I know...”
He strides ahead of us, putting Betty on a leash because she is so unsettled, and we follow. Even Charlie notices, and we share a questioning look as we trail behind. We catch up with him at a viewpoint and follow his gaze. It is a view worth lingering on: a glorious patchwork quilt of green fields, thick hedges, and glorious woods. The countryside is spread out before us, flowing for miles, dotted with distant signs of habitation, red roofs and white brickwork.
All around us are rolling hills and wide grassy spaces, glorying in the sunshine. There are people here, and a parking lot, but if you cut all of that out you can definitely imagine it being the same as it was in Jane Austen’s day. You can picture Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, and rich, making the long trek up here with Mr. Knightley and the rest of the Highbury socialites for their picnic. Emma, if I remember rightly, is a bit of a bitch that day—and getting told off by Mr. K is the beginning of quite a journey for her.
If it weren’t for Luke’s demeanor, I’d probably be looking it up on my phone and getting him and Charlie to act out scenes in silly voices with me. Luke would be a great Mr. Knightley, and I’d make Charlie play Emma just for kicks and giggles.
I reach out, put my hand on Luke’s arm. Breaking our new rules already, I know, but there is definitely something wrong with him. “Are you okay?” I ask gently.
He tenses beneath my touch, and I pull my fingers away quickly.
“Yeah, Luke, what’s up, man?” Charlie echoes. “Even Betty seems a bit freaked.”
Luke turns away from the view and faces us. He runs his hands over his hair and replies: “I’m sorry. Look, come on—let’s go for a walk. Shake it off.”
He doesn’t explain what he wants to shake off, but we walk alongside him. He points out a place called Swiss Cottage and tells us it’s where John Logie Baird used to live. The building itself is hidden by dense greenery, so we can’t see it, but a circular blue plaque backs up his claim.
“Who’s John Logie Baird?” asks Charlie, taking a photo of it anyway.
“Inventor of the television,” I reply, grinning.
“Oh wow! I feel like I should fall to my knees and worship... I can’t even imagine a world without television...”
We continue along a shaded path, clambering over gnarled tree roots, until Luke stops in front of a gravestone. Its inscription tells us that it belongs to Major Peter Labelliere, an eccentric resident of Dorking who was buried there head-downward in 1800. Charlie looks it up on his phone and tells us the Major apparently thought the world was upside-down, and this made sense to him. Each to their own.
Eventually, we emerge out onto a gentle slope, and Luke pauses. He sits down on the grass, and Betty climbs onto his lap, licking his hand.
“Okay,” he says as we join him. “I can’t shake this off. Charlie, has your mum told you about my daughter, Katie?”
Charlie flicks his gaze at me, swallows, and shakes his head. “Well,” Luke continues, “I had a little girl. She died a few years ago, when she was nine.”
Charlie’s face pales, and he blinks very fast before saying: “I’m so sorry, Luke. That’s a nightmare.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Anyway, we didn’t live too far from here, and on the weekends and school holidays, this was one of her very favorite places in the world. We’d drive here early in the day, bring a picnic, spend hours rambling through the woods and up and down the pathways. The deeper you go, the more it starts to look like something from Middle-earth, you know? Perfect place for exploring.”
His words unleash a torrent of guilt inside me—even though I had no idea of this place’s significance to Luke, I feel dreadful for having unwittingly brought him here. “When she was smaller,” he continues, “her favorite part of all was the play trail. Better than a park any day—tucked away in the woods, trees to climb, log bridges to clamber over, forts made out of branches. There are some stepping-stones over the river as well—she loved those. We had to carry her across to start with, then she got braver each time, until eventually she could do it by herself.”
He pauses and smiles, and I know that he is remembering. That those images of his baby are forever etched in his mind, both consoling and corrosive at the same time.
Charlie is rapt, his brown eyes shining with tears, and I sneak my hand into his. He squeezes my fingers as Luke continues.
“So even when she got sick, we used to bring her. It depended on how well she was, whether she could manage much of a walk or not. But during her good times, when she’d responded well to her treatments, she could seem almost like a healthy little girl. Once we got Betty, she came with us too—it’s a pretty perfect place for dogs as well. That’s why she’s a bit high-strung this morning, I think. If I let her off the lead right now, I suspect she’d fly away into the distance, all the way to those stepping-stones.”
I recall the dog’s reaction when we got out of Joy this morning; the way she was sniffing the air. It made me think she was searching for something, and I was right. She was searching for Katie. I stroke Betty’s feathery-soft head. She is a very good dog.
“After we lost her, we scattered her ashes here as well. We all came—my parents; Sally, my wife; her mum; our siblings; Betty, of course. It was a strange little pilgrimage, on a day very like this one. It seemed odd that the sun even dared to shine, but Sally pointed out that it was what Katie would have wanted. She would have wanted us to have one last day of fun, even if it was without her. And that... well, that was the last time I was here.”
He leans forward and nuzzles his face into Betty’s fur. I suspect there are tears that he does not want us to see, and he is entitled to that. I’m feeling pretty tearful myself.
“I’m so sorry I brought us here,” I say. “I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”
He looks up and manages a sad smile. “No, I’m glad we came,” he replies. “I didn’t know how I’d react, how I’d feel. As soon as we parked, I wanted to get back in and drive away again. But... well, I’m glad I didn’t. It’s long overdue, coming back here. Seeing this place, remembering those times... it’s not easy. But it’s also not all bad—this was Katie’s happy place.
“I can picture her here at all those different ages—being carried as a baby, toddling around the tree trunks, running as fast as she could down the hills. Even later, when she was ill, it always made her smile. She never complained about anything—and that’s what I need to remember most of all. If she was brave enough to get through all that she had to deal with, then I’m brave enough to deal with this. I can make it my happy place too. So don’t apologize for bringing me here—thank you for bringing me here.”
Charlie seems unnerved, as you would expect from an eighteen-year-old being plunged into a whirlpool of adult emotion. He chews his lip and says: “Have you got a picture of her?”
Luke smiles and replies: “Your mum asked me the same, and I never showed her one. But yes, of course.”
He pulls his wallet out of his shorts pocket and passes us a small square photo.
“That’s her school picture, from her first year,” he explains. “I have more, back in the motorhome and on my phone, but I love that one.”
I handle the picture like the precious artifact it is, and Charlie leans in to look at the same time. I can’t help but smile; she has messy dark hair that has escaped her plaits in wild, errant strands, and huge brown eyes. Her grin is infectious and speaks of a deep vein of mischief. Her school shirt has a paint stain on it, and her cardigan is hanging off one shoulder.
“Her mum was not pleased with that photo at first,” Luke says, taking it back and staring at it. “She’d done her hair all nice for picture day, and she didn’t have that paint stain when she left the house! But that was Katie—she didn’t care. She was a little bit wild already, even at four. And that’s why I love that photo. I wish I had more—I wish I had school photos that stretched all the way through, and could add graduation photos, and even wedding photos, but... well. At least I have this. We didn’t have her for long enough, but what we had was perfect.”
I think of all of Charlie’s school portraits—the progression from kindergarten to juniors to high school; the different haircuts and missing teeth and various uniforms; his transformation from cute little nipper to handsome young man—and know how lucky I am. Losing some of those photos in a storm is nothing in comparison to what Luke has lost.
“She’s absolutely gorgeous,” I say. “Like you say, perfect.”
“She looks really cheeky and a lot of fun,” Charlie adds, which makes Luke grin. I notice then that it is the same grin as Katie’s—the little girl must have looked physically more like her mum, but there is a resemblance there.
“She was. And thank you. Now, look—this has been a lot, and it’s been heavy, and I’m sorry about that. The whole ethos of this trip was supposed to be joy. So this is my suggestion—how about you two go back up to the cafe and get something to drink, and in your case, of course, Charlie, to eat as well, and I’ll meet you there in a while? I think Betty and I are going to go on a trip down memory lane, and I think it’s something we should do alone. We’re going to go back to that play trail, and over the stepping-stones, and we’re going to be sad and happy for a while, and then we’ll come back. Is that all right with you guys?”
“Of course it is,” I reply as we all stand up again.
“Yeah. I haven’t eaten in, like, over an hour,” says Charlie. “Anyway... do you know what it’s time for now?”
Luke and I look confused, and Charlie announces: “Group hug!”
He dives in and wraps his arms around Luke’s waist, and laughing, I join in. Luke grabs us both in a big bear hug, and Betty jumps up at our ankles. We stagger around for a few steps, then finally disentangle. Again, I have that strange feeling that Charlie has become great friends with Luke in such a small amount of time—but then again, so have I. It’s like we’ve all been in some kind of emotional fast-forward. It must be one of the side effects of living in such close quarters and being together 24-7.
We make our farewells and walk back up to the visitor center and cafe at the top of the hill. After bagging an outdoor table, drinks, and a selection of scones, Charlie and I settle down together. A black Lab at the next table keeps trying to sidle toward us, looking at Charlie’s plate hopefully in case he drops any crumbs. Good luck, fella , I think.
“That was nice of you,” I say, “that group hug. I think he needed that.”
“Jeez, Mum, I needed that! What a horrible thing to have happened. How long have you known?”
“A few days,” I reply. “I hope you’re not annoyed with me. It wasn’t my story to share, if you know what I mean?”
He nods and drains half his glass of orange juice in one go.
“Yeah. That’s okay. I just feel sorry for him. Why does the bad shit always seem to happen to the good people?”
“That, my son, is a question as old as time. Anyway, just want to say—that wasn’t easy, and you handled it well, and I’m very proud of you.”
He shrugs, as if to say, “Naturally you are,” and chews his lip. He does that when he’s thinking. It’s like his poker tell.
“So,” he says eventually, dragging the word out, “that was Luke’s story to tell, and I totally get that. But what about your story?”
“What do you mean?” I reply, feeling suddenly tense. “Nothing to tell. I’m very boring. Not so much a story as a chapter. Or possibly a limerick.”
He points a finger at me, then notices there’s some cream left on there and licks it off. “Don’t do that thing, Mum. Don’t make a joke—or what you think of as a joke—to try to distract me. I’ve been thinking about this since we were in Oxford. You know last year when I was looking at unis, and you took me to open days?”
“Of course. I bagged a fine collection of free pens and jute tote bags.”
“Well, that was you once, wasn’t it? Looking at unis, thinking about your future, making plans. And before you start making a speech, yes, I get it—you don’t regret having me. I believe you, because I am very awesome, but that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that you had parents. You had a mum and dad and a family home, people who maybe took you to open days, and helped you through your exams like you did with me, and all that boring stuff. And I know next to nothing about them. I’m eighteen, Mum, and I’m about to start the next stage of my life—but I feel like I’m doing it without filling in the blanks, you know?”
I take a sudden interest in spreading the cream and jam on my scone, and in over-stirring my coffee. Eventually, I do it so much I create a brown whirlpool and it sloshes over the side of the mug.
I examine what he has said from every angle and weigh up my possible responses. This is not, of course, the first time that Charlie has asked about my childhood. In the past, I have evaded it—just said something bland like “It was really normal and boring, nothing to talk about.” He has accepted that, but with increasing reluctance as he has gotten older and more independent in his thinking. I don’t think it will work anymore—and I also don’t think it’s fair to expect it. It’s time for me to stop being selfish and at least try to open up to him.
“Are you about to fob me off again?” he says, sounding annoyed with me. “Because, please don’t. I know that for some reason this is hard for you to talk about, but if Luke can sit there and cry into Betty’s fur and still find a way to talk about what happened, then surely you can budge a bit too? I’m not just being nosy—it’s my family as well. Dad doesn’t have any to speak of, and when I asked him about yours, he got super cagey and said he couldn’t remember much from back then and I should ask you instead...”
I look up in surprise. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he would ask Rob, but why wouldn’t he? He obviously feels like he has no other choice. I am, however, slightly amused at the thought of Rob’s face—my parents hated him, and the feeling was entirely mutual. In fact, the answer he gave was probably the most tactful one he could have come up with.
“Okay,” I say simply, dropping the spoon. It hits the saucer with a clang, and the black Lab that is now entirely under our table looks up in surprise. “I’ll try. And yes, it is hard for me, so go easy, all right? What do you want to know?”
Charlie looks so shocked, it is comical.
“Close your mouth,” I say. “A wasp might fly in.” He does as he is told, and then speaks.
“Are my grandparents still alive?”
“Um... I think so. I’m not totally sure, but I have been known to drunk google them occasionally, and last time I did it, I saw a picture of them on the parish council website. At the village fete. About two years ago.”
The sentence is simple, but the emotions behind it are not. Seeing their faces, older, more wrinkled; their silvering hair; my dad’s slightly shrunken frame—the same but not the same—had made me cry. It was like seeing a photo of a place you used to love, a place you used to feel at home in, but knowing that it’s been destroyed by an earthquake and you can never go back.
“And what are they called?”
“Bridget and Owen.”
“And do I have any, um, aunties or uncles or cousins?”
“One uncle,” I reply, “my older brother, Richard. I have no idea about the cousins.”
“And where do they live? Where did you grow up?”
“Cornwall,” I reply quickly.
“Why are all your answers so short?”
“Because, as already established, this is hard for me. I’m doing my best.”
He nods and reaches out to pat my hand. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s just... I’m kind of scared that I’ll only get five minutes or something, and after that you’ll clam up again... and I really want to know more about them. Why did you leave? Why aren’t you in touch with them? Did they do something awful to you, Mum? If they did, just tell me, and I’ll never mention them again, I promise...”
I realize that his imagination is conjuring up all kinds of worst-case scenarios, and none of them are fair. What happened between me and my parents was awful—but I am starting to come to the conclusion that we did it to each other. Being away from my normal life, from work, being on the road, and, if I’m honest with myself, probably my conversations with Luke, have forced me to see the other side with more light and shade. We were all convinced that we were right; all firm in that belief. They were parents who were sure they knew best. I was young and was sure that parents who tried to get your boyfriend arrested could have nothing but evil intent. None of this is easy to explain to Charlie—I don’t want him to hate his grandparents, and I don’t want him to blame his dad for being the catalyst for the whole thing. I also, being truthful, don’t want him to resent me. It’s quite the conundrum.
“Charlie, love, I can assure you that it’s nothing like that. It’s complicated, and I’m not just saying that to shut you up. It really is. And your dad has a point—it was a long time ago, and we all have a way of rewriting history to suit our version of events, don’t we? Long story short, we fell out—very, very badly. I left. I had you. I started a new life without them in it, because that’s what I was sure I needed to do.”
This is a lot for a teenager to take in, but I try not to underestimate him. He is far more emotionally astute than most lads his age, I know.
“And you’ve not been in touch with them ever since? Do they... do they even know about me?”
“I’ve sent them a few postcards over the years. Just to let them know I’m alive. There was a phone call that... didn’t go well. And no, they don’t know about you. To start with, I was still so angry with them, still so hurt by them—and I maybe didn’t think they deserved to know about you. I also didn’t know how they’d react, and I couldn’t handle it if they rejected me. The one time I did reach out, it felt like she might... my mum.”
“Reject you?”
“Yes. I probably overreacted—everything was very heightened. It was just after your dad and I split up, and I was... well, I wasn’t doing so well. I called, she was angry, and I hung up. It wasn’t the most mature of displays by either of us. Then the years just slid by, and the longer I left it, the more impossible it seemed to be to fix, even if I wanted to.”
“Wow,” he says after thinking it over for a few minutes, “that really is a mess, isn’t it?”
“It is, love. Yes.”
“Okay—I only have one more question for you.”
I nod, and he hits me with it. As questions go, it’s a biggie.
“Can we go and see them?”