Chapter 14
DAWN
In my early twenties, when I first met Henry, he was in the same friendship group as a girl named Emily who had grown up with a lot of land somewhere in Derbyshire.
She was lovely and she was hardy, nothing fazed her.
When some of us went camping for the weekend, she knew how to put up the tent and seemed to enjoy doing it.
She didn’t care about the changeable weather or what that would mean for her wardrobe choices.
She tied her hair back and, with bright eyes and a wide grin, sorted dinner for everyone and taught me how to toast a marshmallow properly, and went to bed and seemed able to get a good night’s rest on uneven ground.
That weekend, I tried very hard to mimic Emily, but my true nature would flare up before I could stop it: I jumped if I felt a bug on me, I tripped over the tent rope, I panicked when my marshmallow set on fire, I changed from jeans to shorts to jeans to pyjamas in the course of a few hours, and I did not get any sleep.
Eventually, I gave in and concluded that I was the sort of person who needed a mattress and soft pillows and a fully functioning toilet and at least one plug for essential items like my hairdryer. And definitely fewer bugs.
I had to face it. I was not that easy-going, fun, low-maintenance girl. Luckily Henry didn’t seem to mind. He found me and my aspirations for a life of luxury amusing.
I don’t know what happened to Emily. As the group dispersed and life took its twists and turns, we didn’t end up staying in touch.
I think I recall someone once telling me she’d gone travelling and ended up staying longer than anticipated in Australia.
She’d certainly be laughing at my current behaviour which might compare to a young teenager being forced into the bronze Duke of Edinburgh’s Award to please their parents.
I don’t need anyone’s approval these days.
I’ve been giving off a real if-I-have-to attitude.
‘You sit back and relax, Mum, don’t worry about a thing,’ Megan is saying in a strained, heavily sarcastic manner as she grapples with our tent.
Yes, I did say ‘our’ tent. Another one of Henry’s instructions. Megan and I will share a tent together for the night. Apparently, Henry is lonely on his post-life plain and is hoping one of us will kill each other quick so he’ll have some company.
‘If I tried to help, Megan, I would make things worse,’ I insist, wrinkling my nose at the palm of my hand, inspecting it after placing it down on the mucky log I’m sitting on. ‘And my thighs are killing me after a whole day of riding. And not the good kind.’
She shoots me a withering look. ‘Gross.’
I shrug, delighted with myself, before reaching into my bag to pull out Henry’s ashes and place the box carefully balanced on the log next to me. There you go, Henry, you can be a part of this. Silent and to the side of our bickering just like the old days.
‘We’ve all done a day of horse riding,’ Megan points out bitterly, shooting a small frown at the box. ‘But someone has to put up the tent so we have somewhere to sleep. It’s part of the—’ she pauses to hammer a peg into the ground ‘—fun.’
‘This is what I don’t understand about camping. How is what you’re doing right now considered “fun”?’ I ask, gesturing to her as she wipes her brow with the back of her hand. ‘It’s like you’ve been brainwashed to think physical labour is a holiday!’
‘Who is brainwashing me?’
‘I don’t know. The outdoor equipment salespeople.’
Megan straightens. ‘You sound ridiculous.’
‘I know.’ I think I spot a hint of a smile on her lips and my heart leaps at the notion. Maybe I am still trying to win someone’s approval. ‘You’ve done very well putting the tent up all by yourself.’
‘I didn’t have much of a choice.’
‘Where did you learn to do that? You’re not a camping person.’
‘What does that mean?’ she says defensively. ‘Why am I not a “camping person”?’
I regret my statement immediately.
‘I only meant, you don’t usually go camping. Do you?’
‘I’ve camped at Glastonbury.’
‘Oh. Well. I stand corrected.’
‘Why are you making that face?’
‘I’m not making any face.’
‘Glastonbury is real camping.’
‘I didn’t say it wasn’t.’
‘You did with your face.’
‘It’s . . . a different sort of camping, isn’t it?’
‘There. I knew you were making a face. And what is a “camping person” anyway? You make me sound like I’ve never braved the outdoors before,’ she says, tossing her tools on the grass. ‘I’m a lot tougher than you think.’
‘Megan, that’s not what I . . .’ Sighing, I pinch the top of my nose with my thumb and forefinger before dropping my hand in my lap and when I speak again, I step gently and calmly.
‘I know you’re tough, darling. I didn’t realise you were a fan of camping, that’s all. It has nothing to do with toughness.’
She lifts her chin. ‘Okay.’
‘I was trying to pay you a compliment. I’m really very impressed at you putting the tent up so splendidly.’
She rolls her eyes. But not in an annoyed way.
‘I’m sorry if you thought I was implying in any way that you weren’t resilient and outdoorsy. Clearly you are. I didn’t realise you had experience, that’s all.’
She folds her arms, her chest rising with a deep inhale. ‘Okay.’
‘Good.’
‘I was being oversensitive,’ she admits, frowning, avoiding eye contact.
‘I forgot that you’d camped before,’ I offer.
She nods. There’s a beat of silence between us.
‘You know, I think my horse has it in for me,’ I mutter conspiratorially.
There. The smile again. Just there in the corners of her lips, tugging upwards with resistance. It makes me bold and hopeful, so on I go, trying to lure it out again.
‘That horse is plotting something and I can’t tell what it’s thinking.’
‘I don’t think that’s just your horse, Mum. No one can read an animal’s mind.’
‘It can sense that I don’t like its species. It’s insulted.’
‘You think you’ve hurt your horse’s feelings and now it’s out to get you.’
‘That horse has walked over those rocky paths a hundred times but with me it happens to stumble.’ I raise my eyebrows at her. ‘Tell me that’s not suspicious.’
Her stubbornness breaks, the smile wins. I’m victorious. If she’d let me, I’d make Megan smile like that every day forever.
‘Mum,’ she says, looking me dead in the eye, ‘your horse is not out to get you.’
‘If something happens to me tomorrow, that horse should be your first suspect.’
Her smile widens, stretching up to her eyes, and she shakes her head at my silliness.
The tent done, she says she’s going to speak to our guide about whether she can help with dinner.
I tell her I’ll take a moment here on this log and then I will also offer my services.
She says that we both know that’s not true.
I commend her for being able to read my mind even if she can’t read the mind of a horse.
She leaves, laughing. I rest my palms back on the log and tip my head back to look up at the sky.
A large bird with a strikingly wide wingspan soars overhead.
***
There’s something spectacularly romantic about sitting around a campfire at night and talking to each other.
Whether it’s people you know very well or a little or not at all.
Around a campfire, almost everything you say is profound.
I think it’s the warm orange glow flickering on people’s faces.
It makes us all look like wise, world-weary prophets.
Megan is sitting next to Nico and she’s on her third or fourth glass of wine.
Her phone is not in her hand – I don’t know where it is, actually – and she’s answering his question about whether she gets to travel much.
She’s blushing at his attention. He’s listening to her as though no one else is there.
I’m trying to distract myself from the dull aching pain in my leg, pretending that it’s from being up on a horse all day.
The man sitting next to me, Rick, is American and absolutely charming.
He’s got thinning brown hair, dark eyes and a fluffy beard that his wife, who is sitting on his other side, disapproves of.
They’re on holiday and have booked an activity for every day that they’re here, he tells me proudly.
‘I hate lounging around on holiday, I like to be busy,’ he says, glancing affectionately at his wife.
‘And Mandy here grew up on a horse, so we thought why not trek through the mountains? We’ve booked a wine tour of a local vineyard for the day after tomorrow and then the day after that we’re going canoeing. ’
‘Goodness! That does sound busy.’
‘What about you? I got the feeling this activity wasn’t your idea,’ he says, chuckling.
‘No, this was actually planned by my ex-husband,’ I inform him.
His smile falters. ‘Oh.’
‘We’re on excellent terms, don’t worry. Today was him encouraging me to like the same interests as him and Megan,’ I say with a sincere smile, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. ‘I think he was trying to be nice but he is not in my good books.’
‘Great that you get on so well that he can help you plan your holiday!’
‘Yes, isn’t it marvellous,’ I murmur drily.
‘Nothing wrong with doing something that scares you. You did great today.’
I take a sip of my drink, stretching out my leg without drawing notice to it. ‘Thank you, Rick. That’s kind of you to say.’
He watches Megan. ‘Your daughter looks like you.’
‘Actually, she looks like her father,’ I correct.
‘There’s definitely something about her that’s like you. Maybe the mouth?’
‘Maybe. Do you have kids?’
His eyes glaze and fall to the ground. He says he does, but in a voice so different to the one he’s been using, I know not to ask anything further on the topic.
The air suddenly feels heavy with sadness and when he breaks it, back to his former geniality and light humour, I know that I will never know Rick’s full story – and that sometimes, in the future, I will find myself thinking of him and his quest to keep busy.
‘Are you retired, Dawn?’
‘No,’ I answer. ‘Mine isn’t the kind of job from which you retire unless forced.’
I think about the lunch with Michael and knock back the rest of my drink.
‘Now that’s intriguing!’ Rick exclaims. ‘May I ask what it is you do?’
‘I’m an author.’
His eyes light up. ‘Fantastic! What do you write?’
‘Romance.’
‘Oh, Mandy! You have got to hear this. Mandy.’ He interrupts his wife’s conversation so loudly that the rest of the campers around the fire are drawn into our conversation, too. ‘Dawn is a writer. She writes romantic novels. You’re always reading those books!’
‘I am,’ Mandy says, leaning forward to beam at me around him.
‘Her name is Dawn Dixon,’ Nico chimes in.
Mandy gasps in recognition. ‘Dawn Dixon, the author of the Heartlodge books?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ I say with a well-practised appropriately modest smile.
‘Oh my goodness, I am such a huge fan,’ she gushes, placing a hand on her heart. ‘I can’t count the number of times I read those books! Wow, Dawn Dixon. What an honour. I can’t believe this!’
‘That’s very kind, thank you.’
‘My book club is going to be so jealous. Are you writing anything right now?’ she asks eagerly.
‘I am.’
Squealing with delight, she grabs her husband’s forearm and squeezes it, her eyes fixed on me. ‘Can you tell us anything about it?’
‘I would be in a lot of trouble if I did that,’ I chuckle, lost in this warm, fuzzy feeling of being important. I remember saying that sort of thing in the past, when it was true.
‘Oh wow! How exciting. I really do love your work,’ she says, gazing at me in such awe it makes me blush gratefully.
‘Are you a writer, too?’ Rick asks Megan.
Megan shakes her head. ‘I’m a consultant for financial services.’
‘But she is a great storyteller,’ Nico insists, prompting a hardened glare from Megan and a surprised look from the rest of us. ‘She made up stories when we were kids.’
‘Yeah, we were kids,’ she emphasises, her cheeks flushing pink.
He clicks his fingers. ‘An adventure book. That was what you wanted to write, wasn’t it? A children’s fantasy story.’
I snort softly but noticeably, and I honestly don’t know why. I’m furious at myself for a kneejerk reaction that is going to cause trouble, whether it’s valid or not.
Megan turns to look at me, fire flickering in her eyes. ‘Why is that funny?’
‘Oh, no, it’s not funny. It’s only that you always gave me the impression that you weren’t into . . . that sort of thing.’
‘What sort of thing?’ she fires back, her expression neutral, her voice steady.
She’s much better in a battle than I am. Sharp, meticulous, swift responses.
‘I mean the arts. Unsteady career paths and all that. You know, I thought you disapproved of things that weren’t serious. Writing books, say.’
‘You’re an author and you’re saying that writing isn’t serious.’
‘Oh, you know what I mean,’ I say with a light laugh, desperate to abort this mission.
‘Not really.’
I tilt my head at her. ‘You’ve never shown any interest in writing, that’s all.’
She blinks and drops her gaze, her fingernail tapping at the side of her cup.
‘I wrote a book,’ she says suddenly.
I stare at her, stunned.
‘That’s wonderful!’ Rick cries, oozing with relief that our conversation can be interrupted and the tension lifted by an outsider. ‘Good for you.’
‘Did you publish it?’ Mandy asks brightly.
‘No. No one wanted it,’ Megan tells her, before taking a large gulp of her wine.
Nico looks at me, his eyes appealing for something. But I don’t know what to give.
‘Most authors have their first book rejected, but with some persistence, they get there! That’s what they say, isn’t it?’ Rick says. ‘Dawn can persuade you to try again. I have no doubt whatever you write next will hit the mark.’
Megan smiles at him politely. ‘It was a very long time ago.’
She changes the conversation, asking Rick about the wine tour he’s embarking on this week, and he and Mandy happily tell her all about it, even inviting us all to join them.
I pretend to be invested when really all I can do is steal glances at my daughter, wondering why she would keep the fact that she was writing a book from me.
I’m disappointed on her behalf that she faced rejection, yes, but more than that I feel annoyed at her for not telling me that we had something in common.
I find myself mourning the conversations we might have had.
Conversations that might have made all the difference.