Chapter 5
SARAH
I wake up with a gasp to find myself in a dark room, not quite sure where I am or how I got here. Then the light begins to filter through the tiny window with its scrap of curtain, and I realise that, of course, I’m in bed inside Betty.
The campsite, when we finally arrived, was quite nice – each camper gets their own little section, and although it’s pretty rudimentary, we’ve got a shed-like structure with a basic loo and shower for our sole use.
Hal seemed pretty convinced that this was going to impress me when we arrived; clearly this is an upgrade from his usual pitches, which doesn’t exactly fill me with confidence for the rest of the trip.
He then proceeded to light the tiny gas stove he’s installed on the makeshift kitchen counter and to heat up some soup, pairing it with bread he picked up from the small shop on the way in.
We perched on the little fence outside in the fading light and clinked our baguette together as if it were a glass of the good stuff.
Somehow, although I’ve never been a fan of soup, it was so warm and welcome after that stuffy, horrible day of travelling that it tasted delicious.
‘Do you think that’s what it is?’ I said to Hal, who’d said something about food tasting good in the great outdoors.
‘Or that maybe you get so hungry when you’re travelling that any food tastes three times as good? ’
He looked thoughtful for a minute, then started to say something about almost drinking pee from a coffee cup, before thinking better of it and clamping his jaw shut.
I’ve decided that we’ll never talk about the pee cup incident again. And we seem to both be fine sticking with that.
Hal failed to mention, when I asked for the lift, that Betty has just one bed.
A huge, foldaway thing that fills almost the whole of her open space.
But after the soup, he pulled it all out and began to make it up with sheets and blankets.
He piled pillows down the centre as a barrier, presumably to prevent me from giving into temptation during the night or something.
Then we both clambered in as best we could.
The last thought I had, as we lay under our respective blankets, was that I’d probably never manage to sleep on the thin mattress. But it seems I was wrong: when I check my watch, it’s actually 7 a.m. – pretty close to the time I’d usually be up for work.
Hal is snoring lightly beside me and I shuffle forward, carefully trying not to wake him. It’s hard with the boot that seems to be gaining weight by the second. My leg throbs as I gingerly get to my feet, grabbing the crutch that I leant against the end of the bed last night.
I hobble to my suitcase and manage somehow to extract a pair of shorts to slip into. My plan had been to use the shower, but I’m going to leave that until Hal’s up. Knowing my luck, without a little help with my toiletry bag and stuff, I’d slip over and break the other leg or something.
Dressed enough to be decent, I fiddle with the handle on the inside of Betty’s door and manage to slide it back a little – enough to slither out. Hal makes a grunting noise but turns over and I breathe a sigh of relief. It will be nice to have a little ‘me’ time this morning before he wakes up.
His plan is to visit some sort of bird park today.
When he told me last night, I thought he was joking.
‘Yeah, good plan,’ I said, then watched a kind of red flush travel over his face to the tips of his ears.
He said something about not being a birdwatcher but that it seemed a shame, and did I know there were 1,000 different species of birds in that sanctuary alone?
I made appreciative noises, but in all honesty I’m not sure I’m going to go with him. I’d rather stream a movie, put the leg up and just wait until he’s all birded-out and ready to travel again.
The campsite is almost full, but not as busy as I thought it might be.
It’s spread over quite a large plot and the vans and campers are separate from the chalets and tents.
This morning it’s already warm, but it’s early and the whole place feels hushed.
I resist the urge to tiptoe (not possible anyway in the boot) as if trying not to wake anyone, as I walk the wide, gravelled path to the front desk.
Of course I’m not the only early riser. A woman with a pram walks past me, her eyes tired, face flushed.
There are a couple of dog walkers, and one dog who appears to have got out of her caravan without her owners knowing.
She passes me at a trot, pink tongue lolling out of a mouth I’d swear is smiling.
‘Don’t worry,’ I think. ‘I won’t tell.’ She’s entitled to her own early-morning adventure.
The shop is open when I arrive and a woman in a green Aertex T-shirt greets me with a bonjour.
It’s a small place, with just two rows of groceries; the rest of the shop is packed with holiday essentials – tiny, overpriced packs of laundry pods, bottles of washing-up liquid, plastic toys and blow-up floaties for the pool.
There’s a section for swimming costumes and flip-flops, another for sun lotion.
Wine takes up the whole of the back shelf, with a couple of spaces left for crates of beer and soft drinks.
I spy the pastries by the front till, stacked in enormous straw baskets and still warm. I lift a couple into a paper bag with tongs, then pick up a small jar of coffee just in case Hal has run out. The thought of coffee brings back a more unwelcome image from yesterday, but I push it away.
The woman smiles at me and rings up the total, and I guiltily pay with my credit card. It’s only €5.39 and I’m sure she’d probably prefer cash.
‘C’est cassé?’ she asks, gesturing towards my leg.
‘Oui,’ I reply, not 100 per cent sure what she’s asked me, but sensing from the tone and her sympathetic face that it’s something to do with my having an injury.
Then, armed with a plastic bag and my crutch, I walk-hobble back to the van.
Just twenty minutes on and the campsite is beginning to come to life.
The sun plays on the back of my neck and the place where my upper arms emerge from my T-shirt; it’s not hot yet, but packs enough heat to make me think of applying sun lotion when I get back to the van.
A couple of joggers are out for a morning run together – one clearly a seasoned runner, all thigh muscles and appropriate kit.
The other looks to be someone who’s trying to take up the habit.
She passes me, face flushed, and gives a small, exhausted smile.
‘Bonjour!’ I say to everyone I pass. ‘Bonjour!’
Back in Cambridge, I barely say hello to anyone. Certainly not to people on the street. But there’s a different atmosphere here. Or maybe I just feel different here? I’m not rushing anywhere, I have time.
I can see Hal before he notices me. He’s opened Betty’s door fully and is standing at the stove, wearing the same T-shirt and shorts ensemble that he sported yesterday.
His back is turned and he seems to be studying something on the hob in front of him.
There’s a little steam or smoke visible just over his head.
Next to him, on the tiny counter, is a laptop, opened at his email page.
‘Breakfast?’ I suggest as I near the open doorway, and he jumps out of his skin.
‘Sarah!’ he squeaks, as if surprised to see me.
‘That’s me!’
‘Are you OK? I tried to call you, but…’ He nods to the bed where my mobile phone lies next to a set of keys.
‘Oh.’ I have the sudden urge to grab the phone. It feels weird not to have it on me. But I resist. ‘Yeah, I’m great. I just bought…’ I hold up the bag.
He holds up the saucepan to reciprocate. ‘Made porridge.’
I wrinkle my nose instinctively before forcing my skin back to straightness. ‘Oh, thank you. Did you have to look up a recipe or something?’ I nod towards his laptop.
Hal laughs. ‘Nah, just fielding some work that’s come in.’
‘You’re… multi-tasking?’ I feign astonishment. ‘But… but… you’re a man!’
‘And they said it couldn’t be done!’
He reaches into some sort of high locker and pulls out a jumble of wood that, with a little manipulation, folds out to form a little table and two chairs, which he assembles on the grassy patch outside the door.
It feels a little bit like watching Mary Poppins draw a lamp out of her bag – there’s no way that he was hiding furniture in that tiny space.
Then, wordlessly, he takes my arm and helps me to one of the chairs.
I realise, once I sink into it, that I feel completely exhausted.
It’s such an effort walking in this thing, supporting myself on the crutch.
It’s not just the physical side of things, but the coordination of it that exhausts me, I think.
I mean, I’m relatively fit – I go to the gym a few times a week, do a few sit-ups here and there.
But the thought process involved in remembering to place the crutch, then lean on it to take the weight from the boot, before putting my good leg forward, seems too much for my brain.
I catch Hal watching me from the van where he’s pouring hot water into two mugs, his forehead creased.
‘What?’ I ask.
‘Just hope you’re not overdoing it.’
‘I’m fine,’ I lie.
‘OK, well let me know if you need… well, anything,’ he says, walking over with my cup of instant.
I’m tempted to reply: ‘Who are you? My mother?’ Then realise that the last thing my mum would be doing in this situation is make me sit down. She’d be more likely to admonish me for being clumsy, then detail every instance from my childhood and adolescence in which I displayed this particular flaw.
Dad would have though, I think. And for a moment I’m undone. I add a sugar to my coffee and stir, focusing my attention on the swirling brown liquid and keeping my face from view.
Hal pours thick, grey, sludge-like substance into two bowls then brings them to the table. It looks almost like cement, but he takes a greedy spoonful from his own bowl and appears to be enjoying it.
‘Thanks,’ I tell him, wondering how insulted he might be if I say I’m too full after my pastry to try it. I take a sip of coffee and it’s surprisingly good.
‘Better than yesterday’s?’ he asks.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘You know. Yesterday’s coffee?’ he says meaningfully.
Oh God. He’s talking about the pee. ‘Well, to be fair, I never got to taste that delicious brew.’ Oh shit, did I actually just say that?
He laughs, takes a sip of his own mug and says something about feeling comfortable with me. ‘I think it’s knowing someone for so long, since childhood,’ he says.
I nod. ‘I know what you mean.’
It’s eight thirty now and a couple of vans rumble past on their way to the exit.
A group of chattering kids walks by on the other side of the bush, talking French so quickly I don’t have a hope of understanding it.
Another jogger passes us, this time with a dog on a lead.
I think about the dog escapee of earlier on and wonder whether I ought to have captured her, tried to find her owner.
It was something about the smile; I just couldn’t bring myself to ruin her moment. Still, I hope she’s OK.
I realise that Hal, now finished, is staring at my untouched porridge.
Guiltily, I pull it towards me, and take a spoonful.
It’s warm and tastes kind of earthy; its texture, gluey.
Hal’s expression as I eat reminds me of an expectant child, waiting for praise.
‘Yummy,’ I manage between sticky mouthfuls.
‘Be good for the leg,’ he says, and I’m just wondering whether he means we might be able to make a cast out of the sticky sludge once it’s cooled, when he adds, ‘Vitamins.’
I nod sagely. Porridge has never been my thing, but it’s sweet that he’s being so thoughtful. When Louis was younger, he used to return from Hal’s so high on sugar that he couldn’t get to sleep four hours later.
Clearly, the man has changed.
‘Leave in half an hour?’ he asks.
‘What?’
‘For the bird park.’
I want to tell him no, that he can go it alone.
But something in his face is so expectant that I can’t.
He reminds me of Louis, which is odd because you always think of sons resembling fathers, but rarely think of it the other way around.
‘Sure,’ I say instead, picking an oat from between my teeth. ‘Why not.’