“Oh no—I mean like in an actual river, and an actual lake. With fish and aquatic insects and mud and plants that tickle your toes.”
“Ugh! How horrid. But I’m glad you’re having a nice time. Did you get the letter about the layoffs?”
I confirm that I did, and we catch up briefly on our colleagues, sharing our surprise that sixty-seven-year-old Barry has opted to relocate to Kidderminster. We wonder if maybe he is trying toescape his wife, whom he has complained about solidly for the last two years.
“So I have some letters for you here, and some travel brochures,” Barb says, and I hear the background noise change as she goes inside. “Some junk stuff. One from Charlie’s school maybe?”
I ask her to open it and discover that it is a letter inviting him back for a farewell assembly next week. I glance over at him, see that he is asleep, and decide that I will ask him later. I really hope he doesn’t want to go—I am worried that finding my joy is a tentative state of affairs, and that if I am forced to go back to the town where we lived so soon, forced to face the memories so quickly, my joy will evaporate and I will be finding my desperation instead. That’s not as catchy a hookline really. Still, if he wants to do it, wants to go back and see his friends, I will find a way to make it happen.
“There’s a couple more...,” Barb says, and I hear her riffling through them.
“This is so exciting!” I announce. “The suspense is killing me—what is it? Is it a telegram from the king? Is it an invitation to a high-stakes baccarat game in Monaco? Is it tickets to a masquerade ball in Venice?”
“Erm... looks like a gas bill?” she replies, sounding disappointed on my behalf.
“Oh. Okay. Could you take a pic and send it to me so I can sort it out, please? Anything else?”
“One more... looks official.”
“Is it in a brown envelope?” I have an irrational fear of brown envelopes, as they are forever linked in my mind with taxes, driving licenses, and other scary government-based organizations.
“No, white...”
She opens it up and is quiet while she presumably reads it.
“Oh dear... not really a nice one, this, Jenny! It’s from your insurers, saying they’re considering not paying out on your home contents claim until they have investigated a bit further. Apparently they suspect it was due to erosion, which you’re not covered for because that’s a specialist policy you don’t have. I’m so sorry. They’re absolute bastards, aren’t they? Excuse my French!”
Barb never swears, and I can imagine the perfect pink blush as she feels ashamed of herself. She is, however, right in her choice of word. I had suspected there might be problems, because, well, why wouldn’t I? I rack my brains to remember what Bob said on the night it all happened, and although there was definite reference to storms and rain and sea currents, sadly I do seem to recall that erosion was mentioned as well.
I know I don’t have a “specialist policy,” and wonder right now how big of an idiot that makes me. For all I know, it was mentioned in the small print of my lease or something—but, seriously, nobody expects this to happen, do they?
I tell Barb not to worry about it and promise to stay in touch before I hang up. I feel a bit deflated, a bit worried, a bit anxious. Even without the insurance, I remind myself, I am financially okay for a while longer—but it acts as a trigger, that letter. It trips me up, catches me unawares, stabs me in the back. I have been ignoring reality and very much enjoying it, and now I feel sucked back in.
I try not to let it take over, try not to let it defeat me, but by the time we drop Betty off at her doggie holiday pad and reach Alton Towers, I am not in the best of moods. But I don’t want to bring down Charlie and Luke, so I fake it in the hope that I will eventually make it.
We park the motorhome, and Luke explains some complex logistics—he can’t leave it there overnight, so he plans to goback to the place where Betty is staying and park it there, then cycle back to the hotel and meet us. As we board the monorail that takes us into the park, I am still dizzied by how much all of this is costing. Even though Luke is cool about it, I’m not sure I am.
“Hey, guys,” says Charlie, forming the words around the stick of rock candy he has in his mouth. He got it earlier and it says “Blackpool” down the middle. He tugs it out and asks: “If you were a piece of rock candy, what would you have written inside you?”
“I’m not sure,” I answer, “but yours would probably say ‘evil.’ Or maybe ‘hungry.’ Or maybe both.”
“Ha! That’s a good one. Mum, I think yours would be ‘red wine,’ or ‘go away, I’m tired.’ Luke, I reckon you’re more of a ‘wobbling frog’ dude. Maybe, if the rock was big enough, you could be ‘pretty hot for an old man.’ So many possibilities...”
Luke and I share a smile, and I ponder the question with far more depth than it warrants. Right now, at this precise moment in time, if I were a stick of rock candy, it would say “anxious” down the middle. I have the urge to bite my fingernails, which is odd as I have never done that before in my life. Hey, who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?
Once we have checked in at the very pretty hotel, we head to the entrance of the theme park. Lots of other people seem to be leaving, and the pathways are awash with red-faced toddlers and fractious kids and exhausted-looking parents and couples carrying huge cuddly toys they have presumably won at stalls. The brutal heat of earlier in the day has faded, and the park itself is actually a lot more attractive than I expected. There are lots of green spaces and sparkling water features, an old building that looks like it was maybe a manor house once upon a time, and a main street lined with shops and cafes.
We equip ourselves with cool drinks and more snacks for Charlie, and the boys consult a map to see where they want to go first. Luke has bought some kind of pass that lets us get fast-tracked onto certain rides, which probably cost more than Nina.
I am angry with myself for suddenly seeing everything in financial terms, for sliding back into my old routines and my old thought processes, but I don’t seem able to quite stop it. I am making it an issue when it’s not, and I am disrespecting Luke’s generosity by continuing to scratch away at it. I suspect it’s a combination of talking to Barb and being in places I hate. It’s not really the money I’m worried about—it’s everything. I’ve successfully managed to shut down most of my usual worry-worms on this trip so far, and I don’t want to let them sneak back in.
“Are you okay?” Luke says quietly as we join the queue for a Mum-acceptable ride—i.e., a very small rollercoaster that seems to be full of toddlers. “You seem a bit down.”
Charlie is ahead of us and is chatting to two teenage girls who are taking their little sister onto the ride.
“Ah no, I’m sorry—I’m okay. Just a bit of disappointing news from home. I don’t want to talk about it, really. Not now anyway. Just ignore me. I’ll snap out of it.”
“You don’t need to snap out of anything,” he says as we shuffle forward a few paces. “You’ve been through a lot, and there are going to be downs as well as ups. I don’t expect you to be ‘on’ all the time—nobody can be.”
