Chapter 7
‘You know what your academic career’s like, Logan?’ Terri says from the driver’s seat of her ancient Mini. ‘It’s like those horse films my dad used to love.’
‘Yeah, the ones that go on for ever and ever.’ Terri grins.
‘They just feel that way,’ Celia says with a smile, glancing back fondly at her son.
It was lovely to bring him home yesterday from his student house in Stirling.
She fussed around him, and he hung out with her in the kitchen well past midnight, drinking his preferred hibiscus tea and chatting about this and that in the easy way the two of them have together.
They have always slotted together quite happily as a pair.
And if other people think he’s odd, then sod them, Celia has always thought.
The moment she first held him was the first time she’d ever felt truly right with the world.
She had family now. She had grown him. Nothing would ever change that.
Now his six-foot-two frame is folded up like a piece of camping furniture among bulging sacks of fabric and Terri’s sewing machine, plus cans of paint in a variety of hues, and boxes piled with cleaning products.
‘The kind of film where you feel you’re gonna die right there on the sofa,’ Terri continues, clearly relishing the theme.
‘And you’ll be carried out and still there’ll be horses clip-clopping all over the plains… ’
‘I’ve only got a year to go, Terri,’ Logan says mildly.
‘Yeah, you say that,’ she teases. In fact, Terri does have a valid point.
At twenty-four, Logan has done an admirable job of stretching out the student life stage for longer than Celia had anticipated.
Courses have been started and abandoned, and she’d begun to despair that he would ever find his pathway until he landed upon his current field of interest. She’s had to battle with Geoff to allow him to continue, albeit with minimal financial support from the two of them these days.
Logan is adept at shoestring living and not averse to bar work and holiday jobs.
‘Mycology,’ Terri muses. ‘Thought you’d have covered everything about mushrooms in your first year. I mean, what is there to learn?’
‘A huge amount, actually,’ Logan says, indulging her.
‘You should’ve met that guy I was dating.’ Terri chuckles, glancing over at Celia. ‘Remember Pete-with-the-feet?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Seemed normal, y’know? Polite, clean underwear, not like the one who’d turn his boxers inside out to get a second day’s wear…
’ Celia laughs and looks back again to see her son trying to disappear into his polo neck sweater.
‘But a terrible case of fungal feet,’ Terri continues cheerfully.
‘Rotting, they were. You could’ve given them an inspection, Logan. ’
‘Not on the curriculum.’ He snorts.
‘Oh, I know what it is,’ she announces, taking a bend in the road rather too quickly. ‘It’s magic mushrooms, isn’t it? Bet that’s it, eh, Loge? That’s why you’re so keen!’
‘It’s mycology ,’ Celia says with emphasis. ‘It’s a proper, serious subject, Terri.’
‘And it’s not just mushrooms,’ Logan retorts. ‘It’s all kinds of fungi and yeasts.’
Terri laughs, and Celia enjoys their exchange; the way her son and her friend also slot back together so easily.
Sometimes she feels that Terri understands Logan better than Geoff does.
‘Sorry I’m rushing off, son,’ he’d said last night as Logan unpacked his tattered textbooks and a toothbrush that looked as if it had been gnawed by a dog.
‘It’s just, this golf thing was booked ages ago and the guys are intent on getting out on the course first thing. ’
‘No worries, Dad,’ Logan said.
‘I’ll take some time off while you’re home,’ he went on. ‘We could do a fishing trip to Loch Fyne, if you like?’
‘Yeah, great.’ Both Celia and Logan know that this is unlikely to happen.
Geoff has been a good dad, all things considered – being plunged into fatherhood as a teenager, as Celia was.
Taking them on. However, his involvement in the nitty-gritty of Logan’s life has been minimal, apart from securing him an annual summer job at Prime Pastry Products (PPP) since he’s been old enough to work.
This year, even that has come to an abrupt halt.
Cost-cutting, apparently. Geoff refused to go into it any further than that.
As they near the coast, Celia reflects on how lucky she is to have a son who, while not ecstatic about the prospect, has at least agreed to help with the caravan makeover today. ‘What’ll you want me to do?’ he asks.
‘Whatever we tell you,’ Celia replies with a smile.
‘Manual labour, basically,’ Terri adds, and he laughs dryly in acknowledgement that he’s simply not built that way.
In fact, although extremely smart academically, Logan has the air of a young man perpetually baffled by everyday life.
By nine he had the periodic table firmly stamped on his brain, yet was incapable of removing a yoghurt pot lid without splatting his jumper.
His clothes are moth-eaten, knitwear unravelling, faded T-shirts hanging from his bony frame.
His tousled dark hair is forever flopping into his clear blue eyes, and his skin is translucently pale.
Although Celia adores every cell in his body, she also worries about him, lost in a world of fungal spores.
The conversation veers towards Logan’s plans for the summer – or rather his lack of any so far, given the fact that there’s no job for him at PPP. ‘You didn’t think of staying in Stirling for the summer?’ Terri asks.
‘No, I’m subletting my room for a few weeks,’ he explains.
‘Just needed to be home for a bit?’
Logan nods. ‘It’s nice, yeah.’
Celia’s heart swells at this. That fact that he still chose to come home, despite the lack of guaranteed holiday work.
The trio slips into an easy silence, and Celia turns on the music: Candi Staton, ‘Young Hearts Run Free’.
Terri’s car is old enough to have a CD player and the artefact currently blaring out is always referred to as ‘The Pink CD’, being pink – or ‘that bloody CD’ if it’s Geoff talking.
The seventies disco compilation is actually Celia’s and came free with a box of cereal or something. She can’t quite remember.
‘Oh, I love this song,’ Celia announces, ignoring Logan’s protests as Terri starts to sing.
‘Oh my God,’ he cries as ‘Boogie Nights’ follows, and the two women belt out the disco classic together.
They are laughing and Celia’s heart is filled with happiness.
She no longer doubts that the three of them will be able to transform the caravan.
Celia is not averse to physical graft, and she knows that Logan will lope around, taking orders from Terri, who’ll assume charge of the creative side of things.
She makes virtually all of her own clothes, for cost reasons – Celia often hears her sewing machine whirring late into the night.
When Logan was little and requiring a fancy-dress outfit with zero warning, Terri would save the day.
Yet Geoff would barely acknowledge the fact.
He’d come home to find Logan teetering on a kitchen chair, and Terri with pins clamped between her lips, fitting an elaborate costume around him.
Be it a dragon, a bear or even a building – he once asked, ‘Can I be the Houses of Parliament, Terri?’ – there was nothing their friend couldn’t pull out of the hat.
‘Hey, Geoff!’ she’d greet him. ‘How’re things at Sausage Roll Central?’
Superficially, Geoff takes her irreverent attitude in good humour.
‘Fine, thanks, Terri. All good!’ he’d reply.
Yet Celia is relieved that Geoff set off for his golf trip last night.
She doesn’t want to involve him in Project Caravan – at least, not yet.
He’d be bound to have opinions and most likely trample all over their plans.
She would rather present the makeover as a fait accompli.
‘Next right,’ she says, and Terri slows down, cursing the temperamental gears as she takes the junction.
Celia turns off the music and glances back. ‘Not a word to Dad about this, okay, love?’
‘All right, Mum.’
‘He’ll be amazed,’ Terri enthuses. ‘You’ve got to film it, the first time he sees it?—’
‘Oh, I will!’ Celia grins as the caravan site comes into view, and they turn in through the gateway, spotting the sea glittering beneath the pale morning sky.
The narrow lane snakes between rows of immaculate static caravans, and tubs are brimming with cheery tulips and daffodils all fluttering in the breeze.
‘Oh, this is lovely,’ Terri announces. ‘Much nicer than I imagined.’
She’s right, Celia decides; it really is a beautiful spot and she’s feeling so much more positive about it now.
To their left, a woman is watering her hanging baskets and a young couple are strolling towards them with a honey-coloured spaniel on a lead.
The woman’s peaked cap blows off in the light wind and, laughing, she retrieves it.
Beyond the park, a path zigzags its way down the hillside towards the pebbly cove.
Today the sea is choppy, the steeply sided island of Ailsa Craig a smudged silhouette on the horizon.
Celia has brought a picnic, with a flask of tea, so they can happily work all day, plus her swimsuit in case there’s time for a dip.
As a child there’d be occasional trips to the seaside with Amanda’s mum and dad: a nice, normal family who’d all jump into the sea, and then tuck into piping-hot fish and chips afterwards, shrouded in huge luxurious beach towels.
Perhaps today they’ll also walk to the next beach where there are often seals, apparently.
But before that, there’s much work to be done.
They plan to strip out the dingy soft furnishings, scrub the place until it’s gleaming and paint the interior a clean, fresh white.
Then Terri will run up cheery new curtains and cushion covers.
It’ll be amazing when it’s done, Celia thinks, glancing happily at her friend. She can’t wait to get started.
‘So which one is it?’ Terri asks.
Logan leans forward, pointing between them. ‘It’s that one, isn’t it, Mum? The one right at the end there?’
‘That’s right. I’m surprised you remember.
Y’know, last time you were here, you must’ve been about ten?
’ Logan nods. Back then Geoff’s parents had just bought Ailsa View, and there followed a flurry of family day trips.
Betty was a kind and loving granny, a baker of cakes and maker of deliciously creamy rice pudding, cooked on the caravan’s tiny stove.
And Celia and Logan had paddled in the sea and scoured the beach for fossils and agates; geology was his passion at the time.
Rock specimens were gathered and stored in a shoebox that he’d divided into separate compartments.
But then Grandma Betty died and the invitations dried up.
‘It looks terrible,’ he murmurs as they approach.
‘Yeah. Lots for you to study in there, Loge,’ Terri remarks with a smile. ‘A massive array of fungal spores, I’d imagine.’
He nods. ‘Bet there are.’
‘Brought your microscope?’
‘Aw, I forgot! You should’ve said.’
Terri chuckles and parks up, and is the first to jump out of the car. ‘Let’s get to it, then!’ she calls back. Logan unfolds himself and clambers out, rotating his shoulders and stretching out his arms. He glances back at his mother. ‘Come on then, Mum!’ he says.
Celia nods. It’s all she can do. Because something is wrong on this beautiful spring morning. Something she can’t make sense of at all.
That’s not our car parked there , she tells herself.
It just looks very much like it.
And it has the same number plate—W ait, it has the same number plate?
‘That’s our car,’ she announces out loud, over the steady thud of her heart. And now Terri is saying something, and Logan too as his dark hair is blown across his face by the wind. They are both looking at Celia, and Terri is gesticulating for her to get out of the car.
‘Come on,’ she calls out. ‘Let’s get started!’
But Celia is still rooted to the passenger seat, still telling herself that this can’t be happening. Not when, minutes ago, they were singing along to ‘Boogie Nights’. Not when Geoff headed off yesterday to pick up Malcolm and Davie and drive them up to the north-east coast for golf.
Celia gets it now. Her heart seems to freeze as everything slips into place.
She might be the idiot who’s believed in all these ‘golf trips with the Bakery Boys’. But she’s not a complete fool because there’s one thing she understands very clearly.
A person cannot be in two places at once.