Chapter 10
HAL
Then I remember the farm and the dog and the fact that we are camping out on fairly hostile territory because we’ve consumed too much cider. If I hadn’t realised, my head would soon have let me know – the minute I shift, a pain shoots through my temples and I suppress a groan.
Sarah is still fast asleep, her light brown hair a tangle on the pillow.
Her skin is bathed in a pinkish hue created by the floral curtains and the light, and I’m struck by how young she seems, how much her sleeping self resembles the girl who made going to school worthwhile, before it all went wrong.
It’s not as if she isn’t beautiful now, it’s just that when animated you can see the inner workings of her mind on her face; she’s often stressed, sometimes in pain.
A lot of what I say seems to annoy her, even though I’m not trying to.
But on the occasions I have managed to make her laugh, it’s like cracking an egg and seeing the orange sunshine of the yolk spill through to the outside.
She’s lit up and luminous, and all of the care that’s usually written on her expression slips away for a moment.
Making her laugh has been one of my favourite parts of this trip so far.
We’ve spent time together of course, over the years.
But it’s usually brief drop-offs and pick-ups or family outings where we’re interacting mostly through Louis.
When she laughs, or even smiles genuinely, I feel a rush of pleasure that makes me feel seventeen again.
What with the pregnancy and the twenty-two years of co-parenting that followed, I forgot how much joy I got from making her happy, even for a moment.
I always thought the heaviness she carried was due to work, or the fact that she tries to make everything perfect in her life – her appearance, her house, everything she does.
But I’m starting to wonder whether some of it might be my fault.
Until this holiday, I thought I’d done pretty well as a father; now I’m not too sure.
Before I can descend any more into melancholy, two things happen: Princesse, after leaving us in peace for a few hours, has clearly recharged her batteries and begins woofing and howling outside, and Sarah’s eyes snap open, and meet mine.
‘Why the fuck are you staring at me?’ she says.
‘I’m not!’ I lie. ‘Just thinking.’
She looks at me quizzically, but before she can say anything else, Princesse begins once again to hurl herself against the van. I can hear the creak of a heavy wooden door, and a voice begins to shout in French. ‘Shall we head off?’ I suggest.
Moments later the wheels exit the muddy track and return to the tarmac of the Route du Cidre.
Sarah’s half-slumped in the passenger seat, still exhausted and needing to sleep, so I decide to return to the campsite and park up to see if we can get any shut-eye before the day starts properly.
It will also be a great time to stop for a pee – my bladder, held all night for fear of my cock being savaged in the dark by a rampant Princesse, is fit to burst.
‘Sorry,’ Sarah says softly, her eyes still closed, when we park up twenty minutes later. ‘I think it’s the pills; I just get so tired.’
‘It’s only five; get some more sleep?’ I suggest.
She nods and lets me help her to the bed, one arm wrapped around my shoulders.
I’ve never been sexist, never really wanted to conform to masculine ideals, but it does feel kind of nice to be able to help her properly, set her on the bed and pull up the covers so she can rest. Clearly, I’m no knight in shining armour (our encounter with Princesse showed me exactly how brave I am in a crisis), but I do like the feeling of protectiveness that comes over me in that moment.
I lie back next to her on the bed, on top of the covers, with my hands behind my head, not expecting to sleep. And I think about our time at school, our six months of dating, then that moment when we found out she was pregnant and everything fell apart.
At the time, Sarah getting pregnant felt like the absolute end of the world.
You think like that when you’re a kid, don’t you?
In black and white terms. Knocked up your girlfriend?
Game over, my friend. But it wasn’t, was it?
And if we’d been just a few years older, we might have even been excited about it; would have told family and friends and expected hugs and presents.
As it was, telling my parents, then hers, that Louis was well and truly on his way was one of the worst times of my life.
My folks were disappointed, although they didn’t say much in front of Sarah.
But when she’d gone, Mum told me how careless I must have been and how stupid.
Dad grunted and wouldn’t talk about it other than to say he’d give us some money if we needed it (which I presumed was for an abortion rather than nappies).
Her parents were the worst though. Sarah told me I shouldn’t come with her, that she’d face them alone. But I wanted to be there, to hold her hand. ‘We’re in this together,’ I said.
I’d met her mum a few times before of course, and she’d seemed nice enough. A little more formal and sharp-edged than my mum – not the sort of mother you can imagine hugging, more of a feather-kiss on the cheek and a waft of perfume. But she was OK.
When we told her that day, I actually thought her head might explode.
Her face got so red that I wondered how the rest of her body could support itself on the tiny bit of blood it must have left.
Sarah’s father simply sat looking broken and sad, as her mum ranted at us about precautions and promiscuity.
She’s mellowed out since, of course. Dotes on Louis now. Christ, she’s hosting his wedding at her house!
But at the time, the bottom fell out of both of our worlds. I just wish I’d stuck it out for the next bit. Had seen it more through adult eyes than the eyes of the scared kid I still was back then.
I must have fallen asleep after all, because the next thing I know, the sun is streaming in and the whole back of the van feels fuggy and thick-aired. There’s a space beside me where Sarah was, and my pillow is damp with drool. I hope she didn’t notice before she got up.
I crack open a window and begin packing the bed away.
My watch reads 10 a.m., and if we want to get to the next stop in time to set up properly, get some food and then go see the lakes, we’ll have to get a move on.
It’s only after I’ve folded the bed back into itself and done a bit of half-hearted cleaning that I realise I can hear talking.
Sarah’s on the phone.
I know you’re not meant to listen to people’s calls, but she is talking quite loudly, plus I’m naturally nosy. Besides, she sounds upset.
‘What do you mean “like Hal”?’ she says.
‘He’s nothing like Hal.’ She stops for a moment.
‘Christ, Mum, he’s twenty-two; he’s a grown man.
Well, yes… Yes, I know. No! It didn’t. No, I didn’t mean it’s your fault.
Of course I know you’ve done the best you can.
Yes, I’m grateful that you helped with… Why would you say that? ’
It sounds as if they’re arguing, but Sarah’s voice isn’t the frankly terrifying one I’ve experienced when she loses her temper, but more pleading and childlike. As if she’s back to being a kid and her mum is once again telling her she’s let her down.
‘Eight more days,’ she goes on, her tone slightly more settled.
‘Yes, it’s OK. Apart from the leg. Yeah, remember, it’s broken.
Yes, I did tell you! Mum, why do you think…
? OK… OK… Yes, I’m looking forward to seeing you too.
OK, Mum. Yes, give Louis a cuddle from me.
And get him to call when he’s back? OK. Yes, love you too. Bye.’
I wait a couple of minutes to let the silence settle, then step out of Betty. Sarah is perched on a rock, her leg sticking out uncomfortably. She’s staring at her phone.
‘Everything all right?’ I ask innocently. What I really want to know is: why did you mention me? But that would be giving myself away.
She jumps, despite the fact that I made sure my appearing was as noisy as possible so she’d realise I was there.
‘Christ! Hal!’ she says. She flicks her hand briefly under her eyes and turns to me.
Other than a slight pinkish hue to her skin, it doesn’t look as if she’s been crying. ‘Yes, fine, thank you.’
‘Good.’ But I can’t help myself. ‘Who was that on the phone?’ I ask innocently.
‘Oh. Just Mum.’ She grimaces. ‘I’d love to know why I feel the need to call and check in with her when… well, you know.’ I take this to mean that her mother never seems to reciprocate.
‘Complicated,’ I offer.
‘Just a bit.’ She gives me a watery smile.
‘Is Louis OK?’ I figure it’s OK for me to ask this as he’s staying with Vivian, so it’s a natural question. All the same, there’s a prickle of unease in the air.
‘Yeah. Fine. I didn’t talk to him. But he’s going to call us back.’
I nod and decide not to pry further. If she’s fighting with her mum, she’ll probably open up about it in her own time.
Instead, ‘Want to shower here, or set off?’ I ask.
‘I think,’ she says, rolling her eyes at the distant shed, ‘I’d probably be cleaner if I didn’t use the facilities here.’
‘Good call.’ I step one foot into Betty’s side. ‘Want a coffee before we go?’
‘Now you’re talking.’
As I clamber over the bed and kneel up at the kitchenette, I glance back briefly and see sadness settle over her face again. Maybe it’s just the leg, or maybe she’s sick of this odd little holiday. But I can’t help but feel something else is going on.