Chapter 19
I am trying to sneak back into the house the next morning, feeling like a guilty teenager all over again, when my mother collars me.
She has been sitting in the living room with the dog, a full view of everything going on outside, and I freeze as she says: “Jenny! Come here, darling!”
I’d just about managed to get one foot on the lower stair, and consider ignoring her and running all the way back up to my room. Old habits, dying hard.
I sigh and trudge in to see her, a sense of defeat hanging over me.
“Please, sit... ,” she says, gesturing at the chair. I wonder when she will start shining a bright light in my face.
“It’s not what you think, Mum!” I say preemptively. “I just stayed over for the night. Nothing... inappropriate happened!”
Frank hears my tone and ambles over to shove his head under my hands.
My mum raises her eyebrows into a delicate arch and sips her tea.
“You’re a grown woman, Jenny,” she replies, looking marginally amused. “Although I’m not sure a grown woman would spend quite as much time in pink flip-flops as you do.”
I glance down at my feet and silently curse them.
“I have limited supplies,” I say, defending myself, even though I wish I didn’t feel the need to. “Most of our belongings went over the cliff, and these were cheap.”
“Well, you’ll need to borrow something of mine then, or go shopping, because the BBC informs me that the weather is due to break later today. Rain, rain, and yet more rain.”
She takes her glasses off the top of her head and points to a small tablet on the table next to her. Imagining my mum using an iPad is quite the stretch.
“I’ve been reading your blog,” she announces. “The Sausage Dog Diaries! I have to say I very much enjoyed them. It was strange, I won’t lie, but in a way, I feel as though I know you a bit better now. This version of you, not the one I last saw. You seem to have had a very happy time recently. How is it going, finding your joy?”
She can’t quite keep the tinge of sarcasm out of her voice as she says the last sentence, but that is fair. I have mocked the phrase myself plenty of times, even though I genuinely believe in the truth of it.
“It’s been a lot of fun,” I reply, gazing through the window, knowing that the physical Joy is just around the corner. “But that’s all it was—it was never meant to last. When Luke first offered to take us on his travels with him, we thought it would be for a week, maybe two. I was testing it out—seeing if it was something that would work for me. It’s lasted longer than I expected, and it’s been good for me, good for Charlie... but I think it’s time to draw a line under it now.”
“Oh, I see,” she says, staring at me intently. “And why is that?”
We are on delicate ground here, and I know that my mother is proud, independent, would never want to be seen as someone who needed anybody’s help.
“Well, if it’s okay with you, I wondered if Charlie could stay here? He is loving it, and I think he needs a proper home.”
“And what about you, dear? What do you need?”
“I need a home too,” I say firmly. “As you say, I’m a grown woman. I can’t be traipsing around the country forever. I need to settle down, get a job, get back to real life.”
She nods and gazes beyond my shoulder. I hear my father heading to the kitchen, swearing about “yet another bowl of bloody oatmeal” as he goes.
“I’ve often wondered if real life isn’t a touch overrated, Jenny, but I know what you mean. And, of course, you are more than welcome. This will always be your home, yours and Charlie’s, for as long as you want it. Maybe you could start the Springer Spaniel Diaries instead, once Luke has moved on?”
I smile and nod, and give Frank a stroke.
Once Luke has moved on... such simple words, but such a complicated concept.
I tell my mum I need to have a shower, say good morning to my dad, and make my way upstairs. I go about my business on autopilot, then sit down with my laptop. I manage to finish a few blog posts and send them over to Charlie. I am not feeling especially joyous right now, but I hope they will do the trick. A night in Joy has definitely helped unlock my muse.
I lie down on the bed, spreading out like a giant starfish, and stare at the ceiling. I needed to get away last night. I needed to be out of this house, to have some distance between the people inside it, people I love but who bring such complex emotions with them as part of the package. I was feeling claustrophobic, despite the size of the building.
Luke understood that. He let me in, made me tea, quietly strummed his guitar while we chatted. We talked of nothing and everything—about the birds he’d seen, about what it was like growing up on a farm, about his own childhood, about our favorite types of ice cream, about music, about dogs. It was gentle, and easy, and kind.
When I started to make murmurs about leaving, he’d said simply: “Why don’t you stay? You seem like you need a rest.”
Part of me wanted to just crawl into his bed with him, to spend the night in his arms. I wasn’t even yearning for anything more than that—I just wanted to be close to him, for us to give each other comfort. We have both been alone for a long time, and I think perhaps he needed that too.
Luckily, he was far more sensible than me, seeing around corners and predicting—correctly—that as we have forsworn any more “moments,” such intimacy would be a mistake. He made up my old bed for me, and shouted good night from his, and I had the best night’s sleep I’ve had since we arrived here, despite my dad’s cocktails.
He was still asleep when I left, so I took Betty out for her morning doings and put her back in with him when I crept away. Now I am here, lying on this big bed in what used to be my room, already missing him. I haven’t discussed it with him, the future—the fact that I will be staying here. The fact that he will be moving on alone yet again. It makes me too sad to imagine, to visualize him on the road with only Betty for company, seeing the sunsets and sunrises and all the beautiful things without anybody to share them with.
I remind myself that he lived like this for years before he met us. That we were always only an unexpected add-on; that he might have enjoyed having us around for a while, but that he certainly doesn’t need us. I am overestimating my own importance in his life, I suspect—and he will be fine without us. Perhaps we will stay in touch, send emails or old-fashioned postcards, become fond but distant friends. Or perhaps he will simply drive away, with Joy, with Betty, and we will never hear from him again. This has only been a very brief interlude in my life—less than a month. It has been vivid, and memorable, and important—but it was only ever ephemeral. Besides , I think, kicking off my flip-flops, I need to buy new shoes. I need to help my parents. I need to be a grown-up again, for them and for Charlie.
As soon as I think about my son, he magically appears. He makes a cursory knock and then shambles in, still wearing last night’s clothes. I have raised a sloven.
“I was just thinking about you!” I say as he collapses down on the bed next to me. “And you materialized—I think I may have developed supernatural powers...”
“Probably picked them up at all those stone circles,” he says, stretching. He is so long, his limbs are drooping over the edge of the bed, and he yawns so widely, I fear his face might crack.
“I wanted to talk to you anyway,” I say, reaching out to push his curls away from his face. He slaps my hand away, as is only fair.
“Oh yeah? About what? I got the blog posts, by the way. I’ll sort that today. I think Richard might be onto something, you know, with the sponsorship and stuff? Maybe you could make your millions and never have to do another boring job or have a row with insurance people ever again...”
I bite my lip as he says this, upset that he was even aware of my feelings on those issues. I don’t know why—he is eighteen. He is entitled to know that his mother is not in fact superhuman—but I don’t like the fact that my anxieties have bled into his own life.
“Maybe. That’s something else to discuss, I suppose. But I was talking to my mum this morning, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I’ve decided we should stay here. I know you’re loving it, being with your grandparents and your cousins. I know you’ve always wanted a bigger family, and now you have it. It’ll be good for us both, a fresh start. Mum’s really happy too, and there’s plenty of room for us here.”
He is uncharacteristically silent, and his normally fidgety boy-man body is entirely still.
“Are you pleased?” I ask, sensing his tension. “I thought you’d be pleased...”
“Did you?” he mutters back. “Didn’t it occur to you to possibly ask how I felt about it before you made any decisions on my behalf? Did it occur to you to ask if I wanted to live here, not just assume I’d agree with anything you suggested?”
“Charlie, I’m sorry, son, but making decisions on your behalf is kind of part of my job description! You need a home, love. You need somewhere to feel safe, somewhere to come back to when you’re away at uni. I know it’s not the world’s most exciting place, but I genuinely think it’ll be good for you!”
He stands up and looms over me. I sit upright, perched on the edge of the bed, and frown at what I see. His fists are clenched, and his face is rigid with anger.
“Mum, I have my own mind, you know, and I’m perfectly capable of using it. I’ve really loved being here—meeting my family, getting to know everyone. But I never imagined it being permanent...”
“Well, what did you imagine?”
“Oh, right, now you ask?” he spits. “Well, I’ve been thinking too. I’ve been looking to my own future, and I’m not sure it’s exactly the one you have mapped out for me.”
“What do you mean?” I say, standing up to face him. Teenagers are nothing if not unpredictable, and of course I have argued with my son before—but this has totally wrong-footed me.
“I mean that this road trip has changed me as well. It’s made me think a bit more about what happens next. I’m not sure I want to go to uni this year—in fact, I’ve already spoken to the Admissions people about deferring.”
“What?” I splutter, taken aback. “Why? You haven’t even got your results yet! Why do you want to defer? You can’t imagine we’ll just stay on the road for all that time, can you?”
“What if I did? Would that be so bad? And anyway—no. That’s not what I thought. That’s what I thought you might do, but not me. I’ve been talking to Dad a lot, you know, through this trip?”
I nod, feeling fingers of dread slip around my heart. He has, yes—they have FaceTimed more recently than the rest of his life put together. Something about our road trip has opened up some common ground that wasn’t there before, given them a shared link to explore, to communicate through. I have been telling myself that that is a good thing, no matter how ambiguous my own feelings are about Rob—he remains Charlie’s father, and it is positive for him to be close to him.
“Well, he’s invited me to go and live with him for a bit.”
“In Paris?” I say, sounding as shocked as I feel.
“As that’s where he lives, then yes! He said we could do a bit of a road trip of our own as well, go around the country, and he’s got friends in Spain and Italy we could visit...”
Oh , I think, feeling my stomach curdle, I bet he has. Rob has never laid down more than half a root in his life. He is by nature restless, always searching for his next adventure, his next thrill, his next experience. The next thing that might actually make him happy. He’s done this for as long as I’ve known him, no matter what the collateral damage—which was, in fact, me. Me and his own child.
Life was hard when he left, but we survived it—I survived it and gave Charlie what he needed. Gave him love and stability and did all the boring things, like make him eat his vegetables and wash his undies, and go to parents’ nights at school. I made him do his homework, and drove him to his mates’ houses, and dealt with the hormonal moodiness, and took him to university open days. I kept him safe, kept him secure—I protected him. And now Rob thinks he can just waltz into his life, without having done any of that, and take him away? Derail his life, his plans? Suck him into his own aging-hippie world?
Rob always had a tentative relationship with reality and, back in his twenties at least, a far more committed relationship with booze, with recreational drugs, and with partying. Nothing I have seen of his world since then convinces me that that has changed.
No , I think, I cannot let this happen. This is not fair. This is dangerous, and it is my job not to allow my son to blunder into anything dangerous, no matter how much he wants to.
“Charlie, no!” I shout, interrupting him mid-flow. I hold my hands up and say, firmly: “No—that is not what is going to happen here! I won’t let you do that. You are going to stay here, with me, until September. Then you are going off to London to start your degree. Your dad might seem like a lot of fun, and maybe you can visit him sometimes, but there is no way you’re spending a year with him. This is not up for discussion, okay?”
He screws up his face and glares at me. We have not argued for so long that I had almost forgotten how violent these spats can be.
“Not up for discussion?” he repeats slowly. “I can’t actually believe what I’m hearing, Mum! I don’t know if you’ve forgotten this tiny fact, but I’m eighteen, not eight! I don’t even need to be discussing it with you at all!”
“Yes, you do!” I reply snappily. “You might be eighteen, but I have your passport, and you don’t have any money, and you’re just not going to Paris, okay? This is the end of it!”
He looks at me with what I can only describe as disgust, and I wonder how we got here so quickly—from lying on the bed together chatting to being sunk into this pit of aggression.
“You know what, Mum,” he says, striding off toward the landing, “you are a complete cow sometimes. I don’t think our house fell off a cliff at all—I think it was so sick of you and your bullshit that it jumped!”
And with that he exits, leaving me with only the echo of a slamming door.