Part of me wants to fight him off, to push his arms away, to scream at him. But the rest of me knows that he is right. I look up and nod.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand and leading me away from the chaos. From the carnage. From my entire life.
I reach out to grab Charlie’s hand in my other, and together the three of us make our way across the field. It is a battle every step of the way, impossible to predict which way the gusts will come from, our bodies assaulted from every angle.
The man leads us on, and I see that he is taking us up toward the big barn where the donkeys live. Next to it is the long white motorhome that has been here for a good while now, and the pieces fall together—this is his motorhome. He is the man who has the little dog and sits on his steps with a mug of tea every morning, even in the rain. The one I have categorized as “rude and to be avoided” in my mind. And now here I am, clutching hold of his hand, breathless, soaked, confused. After what feels like an hour, we finally make it. He lets go of me and opens the door to the van. He holds it firmly, stopping it from flying wide, and gestures for us to get inside. I push Charlie through first, then stagger up the steps myself and follow him.
As soon as the door is closed behind us, the silence almost hurts my ears. I can still hear the storm, but it is removed, it is distant, it is shut out. The windows are rattling, and the place is rocking gently—nothing that feels like it might result in us flying away like Dorothy’s house inThe Wizard of Oz, but a gentle sway that reminds me of the force of the weather out there.
All three of us stand, still and silent, caught for a moment in our communal shell-shock.
That moment is broken by a blur of movement from one of the other rooms, a flash of black as a tiny creature hurtles toward us. My eyes snap wide, and I step in front of Charlie, going purely on instinct, dropping into some kind of weird boxer’s stance.
“It’s okay, Mum,” says Charlie, laying a hand on my shoulder, “I think I’m safe.”
I look down and see a black-and-tan dachshund jumping up at me. It has its front paws on my shins, and is most definitely longer than it is tall. I reach down and pat its head. It snuffles its muzzle into my hand, and my fingers find the silkiest, softest, floppiest ears I’ve ever encountered. Weirdly, it immediately makes me feel better.
“This is Betty,” the man says, leaning down and scooping her up into his arms. She nestles into him and licks his face, and I see that her tiny body is trembling.
“Bless her,” I say, giving her another stroke. “She’s terrified.”
“So am I,” Charlie replies, moving in to scratch those amazing ears. “What the fuck happened out there?”
I don’t have it in me to reprimand him for his language. He is an adult, and he is also correct—in some situations, only the wordfuckwill suffice.
As if to back that up, an especially loud shriek of wind gives us all another gentle nudge.
“Don’t worry, we’re fine,” says the man, seeing my expression. “I moved it around to the side of the barn as soon as the wind got bad. I’m Luke, by the way.”
As he talks, he opens an overhead cupboard and pulls out a stack of towels. We all take one, and the act of rubbing my own hair makes me realize exactly how wet I am. In fact, we’re creating puddles on his floor.
We are in what seems to be the living area, and it is surprisingly spacious. There is a table that looks as though it folds back up, a banquette-style sofa that probably doubles as a bed, and a compact cooking area with a stove and microwave. Beyond the contents, though, it feels really nice and lived in—there are gorgeous framed photos on display, showing beautiful sunsets in beautiful places, and a small shelf lined with fossils and seashells and pressed flowers in glass. A battered acoustic guitar is propped up by the window.
I see a scattering of well-worn paperbacks, a newspaper folded open to the crossword, a pair of binoculars and a clearly much-usedGuide to British Birds. This feels like a proper home, not like a holiday home. Despite the fact that there are three wet people and a dog in here, it doesn’t feel too cramped, and it even smells nice—probably due to the small tribe of scented candles in glass jars and tins that are grouped together on the table. My eyes run over the labels: bergamot, lavender, mint, rosemary, and sea salt.
I can imagine, under better circumstances, how nice this would be—a cozy night in, reading a book by candlelight, everything close by and tucked away. Safe and cocooned. Everything I once associated with my own home, which is now halfway down a cliff that didn’t even exist this morning.
I thud down onto the banquette, suddenly running on empty. Suddenly and totally exhausted, numb, incapable of staying upright for a moment longer. There was so much damage out there—even the stuff that hadn’t fallen was wrecked, coated in debris, buried beneath the bricks that once protected us, the roof that should be over our heads.
Everything is gone. Our clothes, our furniture, our books and games and precious photos. Our passports and paperwork andphone chargers and the laptop and the Xbox. Our bedding and towels and curtains and food and pots and pans and the slow cooker I never even use. Our flowers and our vegetable patch and our little patio set and my own scented candles. Our shoes and coats and Charlie’s collection of random baseball caps and my few items of jewelry. The cookie jar shaped like an owl; the trophy he won for the Good Citizen Award in year six that I’ve embarrassed him with ever since; his school certificates; all our fridge magnets.
So many things, all gone. A new one seems to crowd into my mind every second, and I feel the panic starting to rise. The panic, and the grief—because these aren’t just things, are they? They are memories. They are moments. They are the physical manifestation of a life lived together. And now they are lost.
It’s the thought of the baby scan picture that finally pushes me over the edge. I always meant to put it in a frame, along with the pictures of Charlie as a newborn, but somehow I never did. I just kept it, in an envelope, tucked inside one of the albums. I know it was just a fuzzy black and white outline, I know I have the real thing in front of me right now, and I know it is silly to react like this—but that is the loss that makes me cry. I feel big, fat tears rolling down the sides of my face and don’t even have the energy to wipe them away.
Charlie kneels down in front of me and pats my hands. He looks distraught, and about twelve years old, and I see that he is trying to comfort me even though he is still an overgrown version of the baby in that scan photo. I squeeze his hands in return.
“I’m all right, love,” I say as calmly as I can. “I’m just in shock. And sad. It’ll all be okay, I promise. I just needed to have a little cry, it seems...”
“You never cry, Mum,” he replies, still looking uncertain.
Ha, I think.As if. I cry all the time.I just do it when I’m alone, because nobody wants their child seeing that, do they? We mums are supposed to be invincible, unbeatable, unsinkable. We stay strong for the sake of our kids, even if that means we have our meltdowns in private.
Luke has remained silent so far, watching this minidrama unfold before him. It has taken perhaps five minutes.
“Tea?” he asks now, raising his eyebrows in question. I nod, and wonder if he has any brandy. I don’t think my much-anticipated bottle of wine will have survived today’s events somehow. Another loss to mourn—alas, poor Chardonnay, I knew him well.
Charlie sinks down next to me and we sit together, wet and shaking, holding hands. Betty jumps up to join us, and she is such a sweet little thing, I even consider a smile.
