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‘What?’ I shout, pausing the track when I realise she’s speaking.
‘Do you know,’ says Lizzie, who I see in the rear-view mirror is still staring at her screen, probably googling ‘ways to divorce your parent, ‘that this song is about dying in a terrible crash? Don’t you think that’s tempting fate a bit as we’re driving to the end of the world at 600 miles per hour?’
‘We’re not driving to the end of the world, we’re driving to Dorset,’ I reply. ‘And I think you’ll find that not only was Meatloaf on a motorbike, he was hitting the highway like a battering ram. We are in a ten-year-old Citroen Picasso and I barely ever leave the slow lane in case Jimbo suddenly needs a wee.’
Jimbo is the dog. He’s the third black lab that David owned – his parents had Jimbo and Jambo when we were little; then a new puppy called Jambo the Second, who died just after we got married. After that, they didn’t want any more – they were very busy with their cruise club – so we took over, with Jimbo the Second. Poor Jimbo is almost thirteen now, completely grey around the muzzle and round as a barrel. He mainly sleeps, snores and snuffles, occasionally punctuated by moments of vast and unexpected energy, where he chases imaginary rabbits and scares much younger dogs.
He’s a lovely beast, with very eloquent eyebrows and a powerful tail that can sweep a table clean when he’s feeling happy. He’s already on tablets for his arthritis and his heart isn’t brilliant, and he has all sorts of lumps and bumps that so far haven’t been anything serious.
I know he’s not going to be around forever and secretly fear that when he finally goes I’ll have some kind of nervous breakdown. That all my carefully managed grief and sadness will come spilling forth and drown me in emotion. That I’ll start crying in the vet’s surgery and everyone will be washed out, down the street, like they’re on some kind of weird water-park ride made of widow’s tears. Which sounds like the kind of water park Tim Burton would design.
I have had way too much coffee, it seems.
Lizzie doesn’t reply to my defence of Meatloaf as a valid driving-song choice. I see that she has put her ear buds back in and is now pretending to be asleep. So much for that brief detente. I glance to my side. Nate is gazing out of the window, head lolling, eyelids heavy. He looks about three years old and my heart constricts a little, remembering a time when he was. The very best of days.
I press play again, but turn the sound down, just in case Nate does want to drift off. It’s not his fault his crazy mother got him up at stupid o’clock to drag him to the far reaches of the country for the whole summer. It’s not Lizzie’s fault, either, and I get why she’s angry.
She didn’t want to come. She’s fourteen. Her friends are her world and I have the suspicion there’s a boy on the scene as well. There usually is at that age. David died during her first year at high school, so she got off to a rocky start. She was the Girl With The Dead Dad for ages, subject to the same mix of pity and fear that being bereaved always seems to provoke in people.
It’s taken us all a long time to get anything like equilibrium back, and hers seems to be wrapped up with her pals, with angsty rock music and with black eye liner. So, no, Lizzie really didn’t want to come to a small village in the countryside, even if I did try and sell it as a very long holiday.
She even asked if she could stay at my sister’s instead, which upset me so much I had to fake an urgent need for the toilet and lock myself in the loo while I wept. This is something I do quite a lot these days, as her tongue gets sharper and her hormones get louder and I fail to get any tougher.
She’s seen enough of me crying to last a lifetime, I’m sure – and it’s better she thinks I’m suffering from IBS than continues to see me soggy. Anyway, getting your feelings hurt by your teenage daughter seems to be par for the course from what I remember. I can still recall the door slamming and the eye rolling and the telling my mum she just didn’t understand.
Now I’m getting payback from my own daughter. I suppose it’s all part of the great circle of life, but not the kind they sing about in the Lion King.
The problem with crying about one thing is that it inevitably leads onto crying about another. This is one of the many pleasant side effects of grief – you have a bit of a blub about one thing (like an especially sappy John Lewis commercial or a stroppy daughter) and you end up weeping about Everything That Hurt You Ever. But once I’d got that out of my system and left the sanctuary of the downstairs lav, I did consider it.
I know Rebecca, my younger sis by two years, would have welcomed Lizzie into her life, and her flat in the city centre, and would probably have been a heck of a lot more fun than I am.
Becca, you see, doesn’t have kids. Or a dead husband. Or even an elderly Labrador. She has no responsibilities at all, which is just the way she likes it. She got her teenybopper heart broken when she was seventeen, and since then has remained steadfastly single and carefree.
Lizzie would undoubtedly have had a ball staying there for the summer, but I had to say no. Apart from anything else, Becca knows as much about boundaries and discipline as I do about particle physics. I may well have come home to find Lizzie pregnant, in rehab or starting a new life as a tattoo artist. All three risk factors could equally have applied to Becca herself.
Funnily enough, after that idea was knocked back, Lizzie didn’t ask to stay with my parents … mainly because she’s not stupid and knows their idea of a wild night out is getting all four corners in bingo at the church hall.
My parents are very sensible – so obviously they hadn’t wanted me to do this either. They thought I was nuts, though they phrased it more sensitively than that. They tread carefully around me these days, which is kind of heartbreaking in its own way. I yearn for the days when my dad can look me in the eye and be rude to me again.
Maybe, I think, surveying the now-thickening traffic as we join the M5 and follow the signs that faithfully promise we are heading towards The South West, they’re all spot on. Maybe Lizzie and Nate and my mum and dad are one hundred per cent accurate with their assessment: maybe I am nuts. Plus, now I come to think about it, Becca didn’t try and talk me out of it at all, which is probably a sure sign that I’m making a poor life choice.
But somehow … I know it’s the right thing to do. I just know it is, with a certainty I’ve not felt for a very long time. I feel scared and anxious and I miss David like hell – but I also feel something odd. Something fluttery and strange. Something that vaguely resembles hope and optimism, and a sense of potential. Perhaps it’s just the sheer shock of it all, I don’t know – but even if Lizzie hates me for a while (possibly forever) and Nate is bored, and my parents consider getting me committed, I know I’m heading in the right direction. Even without the sat nav.
It’s all as unexpected to me as it is to my family. I’d say I’m not an impulsive person, but I don’t really know if that’s true or not. I don’t really know what kind of a person I am, not in this version of reality. I was with David for so long – most of my life – that my entire identity was wrapped up with him. I’ve never been on my own – I’ve always been with him. I’ve never been just Laura, I’ve always been one half of David and Laura. Daura or Lavid … nah, neither of those work. We’d never make it in Hollywood.
Something about this – upping sticks and dragging us all off to Dorset – feels like the first step to finding out who I’m going to be next. That sounds weird, a bit like I’m an international spy with a bundle of fake IDs and foreign passports and stacks of Euros hidden in a heating vent.
But I know it’s important, this feeling. It’s taken me a long time to accept that there will even be a ‘next’ – to accept that I have to try and make a life for myself without David. Basically because I didn’t even want a life without David – in fact I still don’t. But it’s not just about me, it’s about the kids. I can’t just shrivel up and fade into the West without him, much as Lizzie might like that right now.
I have to keep moving. I have to push on, to find the courage to even believe that there will be a ‘next’. It’s been over two years since he left us and that tiny, fluttering feeling – that hope – is what’s keeping me going on this insane drive. Or, possibly, that tiny fluttering feeling is just all the coffee on an empty stomach. Either way, we’re going. It feels like the right thing to do – plus, well, I got the job. That in itself is a minor miracle, all things considered, and it would be downright rude to reject a miracle, wouldn’t it? Even a minor one.
I sent off that ridiculous letter two days before the closing date and genuinely never expected to hear from them. I mean, who in their right minds would give a job to a woman like me? A woman who not only wrote, but actually posted, a tear-stained letter that was the very definition of over-sharing?
Apparently, Cherie Moon would. Perhaps I should take that as fair warning – Cherie, my new boss, the woman who holds our destiny in her hands for the next month and a half, is entirely probably not in her right mind. Also, as Becca had helpfully pointed out, she did have what sounded like a ‘very cool but probably made-up name’.
The response to my letter had been short but very, very sweet. It landed four weeks ago, in one of those small brown padded jiffy bags that people use when you’ve bought something off eBay. As I hadn’t actually bought anything off eBay, and as my post usually consists of bills and people trying to persuade me to reclaim my PPI, I was a bit confused. I stared at it for a few minutes, jiggled it about, and eventually – in a fit of amazing clarity – actually opened it.
Inside was a small pink card, folded in two, from none other than the legendary and possibly fictitious Cherie Moon.
‘Congratulations!’ it announced, in tiny, curling handwriting. ‘I could tell from your letter that you are exactly the right person for the job, and I’m so excited about welcoming you all to the Comfort Food Café for your working holiday. Enclosed are directions to both us and to your cottage, along with your keys, a bit of information on boring things to do with the house, and phone numbers in case you need them. I’ll expect you on July 23 – and I’ll have something sweet and special waiting for you at the café!’
And that was, quite literally, it. Even I, with very limited experience in the world of work, knew that this was unorthodox. There was no request for references (thank God) and only a couple of forms to fill in. There was just that pretty little card, with its tiny handwriting, a few photocopied sheets with a map and pictures, and the keys.
The keys that were currently tucked away in my bag, which was somewhere under Nate’s feet, crammed in with a multipack of juice cartons and mini boxes of raisins and dried apricots that nobody would eat. I just like to be prepared, in case a freak snowstorm or a zombie invasion means we get trapped at the side of the road, you know?
David used to take the mickey out of me something rotten for what he called my ‘survivalist streak’. I even miss that. I even miss being mocked, which is kind of tragic. But he mocked me in a nice way, and now nobody even knows me well enough or cares enough to bother poking fun at me.
I give myself a mental whack around the head and start to sing along to ‘I Would Do Anything For Love’ instead of allowing myself to follow this familiar path to Wallow Town. I Will Not Wallow – my new mantra – I think, as I join Meatloaf on a sonic journey through affairs of the heart.
‘I like this one,’ mumbles Nate, almost-but-not-quite asleep now. His comatose tone makes me smile – it’s the way he speaks just before he conks out.
‘Me too,’ I reply, smiling.
‘I don’t,’ mutters Lizzie from the back seat.
Oh well, I think, glad to hear her voice, even if it does sound pissed off. Two out of three ain’t bad.
Chapter 5 (#ulink_24a6c310-7938-58c1-8659-abbc2b0ff80b)
Our arrival in Budbury doesn’t go quite as planned. In fact, it’s about seven hours later than I’d hoped for, we’re all very hot and bothered, and the dog has been whining for the last thirty minutes. I know exactly how he feels.
It’s also practically nightfall, that strange twilight between-time when the sun could be setting or rising. In this case, it’s definitely setting, sinking as low in the sky as my morale by this stage.
We had a few problems once we left the motorway. First there was the sat-nav fiasco. Or the lack-of-sat-nav fiasco, to be more precise. I decided, in my infinite insanity, that it would be a really good idea to stop off at Avebury. We could see the famous stone circles and walk the dog, and get some air and sunshine that wasn’t filtered through petrol fumes in service-station car parks.
As you can perhaps imagine, if you’ve ever met twenty-first-century teenagers, that idea went down very well.
This idyllic little detour lost us a few of the hours we’d gained by setting off early, mainly because I was convinced that we could find it without using the sat nav. It was on the map. It was a tourist attraction. Surely there would be brown signs or queues of druids in flowing white robes trekking down the lay-by?
Poor Nate was trying to read the road map, with Lizzie hovering behind him, glaring over his shoulder, poking the pages with her finger and yelling comments like ‘It’s to the right, you retard!’
Nate eventually elbowed her in the face, which I didn’t entirely blame him for. He managed to connect with her cheekbone and made her howl so loudly the dog joined in. All the way through these familial delights, I had a tractor in front of me and a Land Rover driving so far up my arse he should really have brought a wedding ring.
By the time we’d circled the same stretch of admittedly very pretty road for about the gazillionth time, we’d all had enough. Lizzie was yelling. Nate was yelling back. The dog was barking. I was trying to retain my zen, but fast losing the will to live.
Things started to really deteriorate when Lizzie shouted ‘for God’s sake, use the bloody sat nav!’ Nate had come out with the traditional response – Sat Nav’s for Slackers – which provoked her to new lows.
‘That’s what Dad used to say,’ she hissed. ‘But Dad’s not here is he? And Mum just isn’t up to the job!’
That hurt, almost physically. It felt a bit like she’d actually stabbed me in the back of the head with a fork and blood was dripping down my scalp.
The worst thing about it was that it was one hundred per cent true. I might be getting my equilibrium back; I might be trying to move on. I might be less of a nervous wreck than I was this time a year ago. But I still wasn’t up to the job – assuming the job was being her dad. Because much as I tried, I would never be her dad – and an epic fail on the road-map front was only a tiny part of that.
In the end I took the very sensible option of pulling over into one of those beauty spots where you’re supposed to take photos of the stunning scenery. As the only scenery in my car consisted of violent kids and a senile Labrador, I refrained from creating a magical Kodak moment and instead simply got out.
I put Jimbo on his lead and practically heard his old bones creak as he threw himself out of the boot. He immediately cocked his leg to pee on a fence post and then tries to eat a small pile of sheep droppings.
I gazed out at the hills and valleys and luscious greenery and completely understood why Ye Ancient People had decided to locate their mysterious and allegedly powerful stone circle here. I just wished they’d thought to leave some better directions.
After Jimbo had sniffed and snuffled a few more times and I’d allowed the gentle sensation of sunlight on my skin soothe me down from the cliff edge the kids had driven me up, I helped the dog climb back into the boot, and slid back in the car.
Both of the kids were very quiet, which is always a worrying sign. I quickly glanced at both, making sure they were still alive, before fastening my seatbelt and preparing to move off.
‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ came a small voice from the back seat. I felt her hand pat me on the shoulder, which made me grin immediately. It was such a hesitant pat, like she knew she had to do it, but didn’t enjoy it either. Almost as though she might catch leprosy from me if she kept it going for more than a few seconds.
‘For what?’ I asked, not wanting to give in too easily.
‘For what I said about Dad. For being the Mean Girl. You’re doing great, and I’ll read the map if you want.’
I briefly touched my fingers to hers – keeping it quick so I don’t ruin the moment with too much affection – and nodded.
‘Thank you, Lizzie. And it’s fine – we all miss him, and we all get mean sometimes. But you know what? I think you’re right about this one. I think I’m going to have to break Dad’s rule and hope he doesn’t mind. Nate, get that sat nav out of the glove compartment …’
Nate hurried to comply, and within about six minutes, we arrived at Avebury – it appeared that we’d somehow managed to drive past it over and over again without ever noticing.
The visit was fine, the kids had ice cream and we all took photos. Jimbo discovered lots of new things to smell, and all things considered, I’d have to put it in the ‘win’ column.
The rest of the day, though, wasn’t such a winner. It consisted of – in no particular order – our car battery dying and having to flag down passing German tourists to help us; getting lost again (despite the sat nav); Nate getting very, very sick and having to vomit his way through various picturesque lay-bys; getting lost some more; an emergency pit-stop at McDonald’s in Yeovil; getting lost some more and Lizzie having to wee in a field.
‘I’m never, ever leaving the city again …’ she’d muttered, throwing the toilet roll at the car windscreen so hard it bounced off and flew away into the road.
With the various delays, it took us way too long to make the journey. We arrived in Budbury frazzled and irritable and, in my case, squinty-eyed from all the driving.
We spot the turning for the cottage complex – The Rockery – at the very last minute, and I veer suddenly to the left to pass through the open gates, thankful that the one-lane road behind me was empty of traffic.
We drive slowly past the shadowed playground with its colourful swings and slide, and past the games room, lit up inside and filled with what look like old board games, books, DVDs, table football and one of those air-hockey things, and follow the signs through to the cottages.
By the time we park up on a crunchy gravel-topped driveway that circles a large green lawn, the light is greying and I can see both the moon and the sun hovering in the sky. It’s very strange and a little bit like the beginning of some kind of fantasy film.
I climb out of the car, so relieved to finally be here, squinting in the fading daylight as I try and figure out which cottage is ours. Hyacinth House, our home for the summer. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but not familiar enough for me to be able to identify why. This is becoming a more and more common sensation as I get older, which my mother tells me cheerily is the beginning of the end for my brain cells.
From what I can see in front of me, there are about seven or eight cottages scattered around the green. There’s a terraced row of three, a couple of semi-detached pairs and one slightly bigger house near the entrance. Solar lights planted around the edge of the lawn are glimmering, looking like glow-worms in the gloaming.
The windows of most of the cottages are lit up, some with curtains drawn, others still open. I watch families inside, brief glimpses of kids running around, flickering television sets, one window steamed up as someone works in the kitchen.
I’m not sure if our cottage is one of the ones I can see or if it is further afield. I can just about make out a path running down the side of the terrace and the shapes of a few more buildings beyond.
I decide we can explore later – but first I need to figure out how to unpack the roofbox. It occurred to me about an hour ago that I have possibly made something of a tactical error with the roofbox. When I was putting the stuff in it, I had to stand on a foot stool so I could manage.
Obviously, I didn’t bring the foot stool with me, and as I haven’t grown on the journey, I’m still about inches too small to reach. It’s a tricky one – and I suppose I’ll just have to hope they have foot stools in Dorset, or perhaps tall people. At least we are here.
I pull open the front and rear car doors, and the detritus of the journey tumbles out of every footwell – carrier bags full of tissues, muffin wrappers and apple cores, old drinks cups from McDonald’s, soft bananas with blackened skin, a torn leaflet about English Heritage, and finally, groggily, two grouchy children. I gather the litter up to put in the bin and pull open the boot so that poor Jimbo can clamber out and stretch his old legs.
Except Jimbo, of course, decides that after being cooped up in the car for far too long, he isn’t old at all. In fact he’s decided that he’s basically a puppy and sprints off over the grass like a gazelle on cocaine, springing and leaping and arcing through the dim evening sky.
He gallops in circles around and around on the grass, the solar lights highlighting the black gleam of his coat and reflecting off his eyes so he looks slightly demonic. He woofs and growls with sheer delight as he pursues his own tail and claws at the ground with his paws.
The kids start to laugh and I have to join in. I may be exhausted and frazzled and burned out, but the sound of my children giggling is enough to revitalise me even more effectively than a spa break and a bucket of chilled prosecco.
They’re both at such awkward ages – half-baked humans, not quite grown up, not quite babies – that giggling isn’t something that often occurs in our house. Lizzie’s out with her friends more and more and Nate spends a lot of time in his room playing X Box Live. They bounce between needing me and not needing me, and in Lizzie’s case between liking me and despising me. Even without the whole dead dad thing, I suspect it would have been a difficult time for us all.
Our laughter and the dog’s playful gnashing, are pretty much the only sounds I can hear. It’s almost alarmingly quiet at the Rockery. The families are all inside, living their barely glimpsed lives. There’s no traffic at all. No loud music coming from loud cars, distant sirens screeching, or trains or trams rattling past. None of the usual urban noises we’re all used to. Just the delicate twittering of birds at dusk, singing their last hurrah before bed time.
Jimbo jumps to his feet and his ears go on alert. We might think it’s quiet, and he might be about a thousand in dog years, but he can clearly hear something we can’t. His head swivels around, grey muzzle pointing towards the cottages, and he is suddenly galvanised into the fastest run I’ve seen from him in months.
He gallops away towards the path by the terrace, his inky fur starting to fade into the darkening light, his red collar just about still visible. I run after him and feel my now-frizzy curly brown hair billowing out behind me.
I catch up just at the point where the path stretches off between the buildings. There are a few more solar lights peeking out of the bedding plants here, so I can see exactly what has attracted his attention, and exactly why he’s stopped long enough for me to reach him.
Jimbo currently has his nose buried in the crotch of a man who appears to be only wearing a white towel, tied around his waist. There’s a lot more of him on display than I’ve seen of a man in real life for quite a while, and I’m glad it’s not light enough for him to properly see my bright-red face – a combination of being too hot, running when I’m about as naturally athletic as an asthmatic tortoise and being a bit embarrassed.
He’s tall, with wide shoulders that look on the brawny side. Like I imagine a blacksmith would look if I’d ever met one. Not many of those knocking round Manchester, funnily enough. His hair looks like it’s probably dark brown, a bit too long, and it’s dripping water all over his shoulders. I conclude from this, and from the fact that I can now see the swimming pool complex behind him, that he’s been for a dip.
It’s pleasantly warm now, even as evening falls, and I can see how that would be an attractive proposition. I quite fancy jumping into a pool and washing off the cares of the day myself. But first I have to try and drag my perverted old Labrador’s face out of a strange man’s nether regions.
I’m not quite sure how to go about it and am fearful that if I make a grab for Jimbo, I might accidentally dislodge the towel as well – which would be very rude indeed.
‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry,’ I mumble, trying to get hold of Jimbo’s collar so I can tug him back from his erotic encounter. ‘Jimbo!’
Jimbo has not only found the speed of a much younger dog today, he’s also found the disobedience levels of a puppy and he fights me every inch. He’s way too interested in having a good sniff.
So I tug and mutter apologies, and try to ignore the dog’s disturbing snuffling noises as he buries his nose even further into the white towel. I also become aware that the kids have followed and are now sniggering away behind me. I realise that this really must all look very, very funny to someone who isn’t, you know, me.
The man is taking this canine sexual assault extremely well and eventually he simply leans down, takes Jimbo’s muzzle in one large hand and pulls it firmly away. He keeps hold of it and then kneels down in front of him, so he’s on eye level. He lets go of Jimbo’s mouth and starts scratching behind his floppy black ears, making his furry head twist around in ecstasy.
All the time, the man murmurs ‘good lad’-type noises, while also gazing into the pooch’s eyes and exercising some kind of Jedi mind-control trick that keeps him relatively still. For a few moments at least.
Jimbo suddenly darts forward to give the man’s face a very thorough tongue bath, then plops himself down at his feet. Within seconds, he’s snoring, curled up in an exhausted ball.
The dog whisperer stands up, holding on to the towel at his waist, although I have thankfully noticed the band of a pair of swimming trunks peeking out.
‘How old is he?’ the man asks, looking down at Jimbo, who is, I see, not lying at his feet – he’s actually lying on his feet.
‘Almost thirteen,’ I say, ‘and I’m so sorry.’
I am feeling suddenly very tired and very sad. The absurdity of my situation flashes across my mind: I have uprooted my children, myself and my very elderly dog on some kind of wild-goose chase, pursuing God knows what. Happiness? Progress? A break from the underlying misery that seems to have been wrapped around my heart every day since David died?
Well, whatever it is, I’m not pursuing it fast enough – all I’m finding is exhaustion, grumpy kids, senile dogs and a caffeine overload. That and chronic embarrassment as I apologise to a mostly naked man, in the dark, in a place I’ve never even visited before – a place I’ve unilaterally decided to make our home for the summer.
