“Seriously? When are you going to stop with the old man line?” asks Luke. He is sitting on one of the front seats, which is swiveled around to face us, and he has a paperback in his hands.
“I don’t know—maybe when they invent a time machine?” says Charlie, winking. Cheeky. “Actually, Mum, have you seen that other comment? There’s one that asks why you’re doing the journey, and it has a lot of likes. Your public wants to know more about you.”
“My public?”
“Yeah. You now have over seven hundred followers—word has been spreading. Lily’s been doing loads of socials for you, and the blog’s even mentioned a few times on other forums. One describes it as a ‘lighthearted but vivid account of life on the open road.’ Get you.”
“Yikes. In all honesty, I’m a bit befuddled by all of this. I mean, I know Betty’s cute, but really... why do they want to know more about me?”
“You have to admit,” says Luke, laying the book down on his lap, “that it is a pretty good origin story. You literally couldn’t make it up.”
“Yeah, he’s right, Mum. Do a piece about it, and we’ll post it with some photos of the cottage—before and after shots. Seriously, it’ll be really interesting, and maybe you can make it sound all inspiring and shit?”
“All inspiring and shit? We lost everything!”
“Ah, but did we really?” he says mysteriously, and winks again. He must have something wrong with his eye.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, already doing exactly that. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I should put the whole Sausage Dog Diaries thing into context—it would certainly explain why I’m hitting the road and searching for my joy; being essentially homeless can be quite the catalyst when it comes to lifestyle changes.
Before long the exertion of the day catches up with us, and we start our usual nighttime routine—checking the windows and screens and blackout curtains are closed, taking turns in the Mona Lisa, getting changed in the still-woefully-unnamed shower room, turning the sofa into my bed, and taking Betty out for a piddle. It’s funny how all of these once alien actions have now become an effortlessly choreographed dance; it’s as though our bodies have adjusted to all the angles and spaces we share, adjusting to our new reality.
By the time everyone is settled and shouts their now-traditional good nights to one another, I lie awake with my laptop, the fairy lights still shining in the dim cabin. My mind drifts to Luke, alone in the double bed just meters away from me. I remindmyself that my son is also in his bed, just meters away from me, and that even if he weren’t, it would make no difference. I am being self-indulgent.
I start drafting a blog post to distract myself and am surprised at how cathartic it is. It’s one of the reasons I always used to love writing—the way you could vent your emotions in a safe space, blow off mental steam, even if it used to be about far less serious things when I was a younger woman. I certainly never had to deal with cliff erosion and freak storms. If I’d been writing a blog back then, there probably would have been a lot fewer actual problems, but a lot more angst about the ones I did have. Maybe, I think, I’d have written one about my day in Oxford. I smile at the thought of the two versions of me in the same city, and how different those two points in my life were.
I cover everything from my bad news at work through to my car breaking down and getting home to find my refuge destroyed. It all sounds surreal even to me, and I was there for the whole thing. I explain how I ended up on this adventure, Luke’s kind offer, the way the three of us have become friends. I finish with a tribute to Betty, and how she is the ultimate icebreaker, the crusher of awkward moments, the glue that holds us all together. She is actually sleeping curled up on the end of my bed as I type, and I mention that as well, before I take a picture of her. She adores Charlie, but maybe I’m starting to win her over too.
I reread it and make a few tweaks before I send it to Charlie. People will either read it and go, “Ooh wow, what a mad thing to have happened,” or they will decide that I am living in some kind of delusion. I can’t control which and decide I will not read the comments on this one just in case.
I tuck the laptop away and roll over onto my back, staring at the roof of the van. I am exhausted, but I still can’t turn mymind off. It keeps sneaking away and running in the direction of Luke. I wonder if he is feeling any of this, and decide that he is probably not. Men don’t tend to operate on the same levels of crazy overanalysis as the female of the species.
Eventually, I manage to keep my eyes closed long enough to drift off, and ten minutes later, Betty wakes me up. Actually, I realize, as I sit up groggily, it is not ten minutes later—it is in fact around four hours later, and it is morning. Betty needs a wee-wee, and frankly so do I.
I tiptoe around as quietly as I can and then go outside with the dog. It is a lovely morning, not too hot yet, and I sit down on one of the camping chairs and admire the garden around us. It is a cultivated wild space, scattered with patches of long grass, gracefully swaying hollyhocks, and lusciously bright lupins.Aah, I think,I miss my lupins.Maybe I will get some potted plants for Joy. Nothing brightens up a home like flowers. Except, of course, Joy is not my home, and this is only temporary. This is transient, this is short-term, this is a holiday. I need to remember that.
Betty is prowling around the greenery, giving everything a good sniff, then comes hurtling back toward the van, her ears flapping. I hear the door opening behind me seconds after she has, and Luke emerges. He looks disheveled, a little tired, his T-shirt bunched up on one side.
He flops down next to me and runs his hands through his hair. Short as it is, it’s still somehow messier than usual, pushed into ridged tufts.
“Bad night?” I ask, raising my eyebrows.
“Not the best. Must have been the pizza.”
Yeah, I think,that’ll be it.
He wipes the sleep from his eyes and gazes out at the garden, in that way people do when they’re not really seeing anything.Seems like we both struggled to get any rest, and now here we are, sitting awkwardly together looking like death warmed up in a microwave. It is, I think, silly. We are both grown-ups, and maybe need to sort this out. You simply can’t avoid each other when you are living like we do; there is no place to hide in a motorhome.
“Okay, so—I didn’t sleep well either,” I say quietly, on the unlikely off-chance that Charlie has crawled out of his pit. “I was a bit worried about... well, about us.”
He rubs his eyes yet again, then turns to face me. He looks sad, and I don’t like it. “Yeah?” he replies. “About yesterday? We had a bit of a moment, didn’t we?”
“That’s a good way of putting it. We did, and I’m not sure it would be a good idea to have another one. Those moments have a way of adding up and taking on a life of their own. I... well, I really like you, and Charlie really likes you, and this is working, isn’t it? Against the odds this is working.”
“And you don’t want to mess it up? Yeah, I get that. It was weird for me too. I’ve not exactly been a ladies’ man in the last few years, and that’s fine. That’s what I wanted—a bit of time off from myself. From all the mistakes I made. I’m not sure I deserve any ‘moments’ just yet...”
I recall the shame he still feels about his behavior after Katie’s death; the way he betrayed both his wife and his own sense of self. I hadn’t looked at it from that angle, and I can totally see why this has distressed him. He is going to be his own harshest judge until he feels able to let it go.
“Right,” I announce firmly. “Well, let’s just forgive ourselves yesterday’s one little blip, shall we? We’re only human. It’s natural to reach out every now and then; we’re not robots. There was no harm done, no taboos broken. I just wanted to clear the air about it. So are we good?”
