Darren is his boss and he’s a bit of an arse. Elliot is a senior civil engineer at a big firm and they work him incredibly hard, but it’s too good a job to quit.
‘Anyway, it sounds like you’ll be too busy to entertain me any time soon,’ he says. ‘Now you’ve gottwobooks to write.’
‘True,’ I say. ‘But I’m never too busy to entertain you,’ I add with a wicked grin. His own smile widens.
‘You want to do something about that now?’ he asks meaningfully.
I look over my shoulder. ‘Er... I’m in a field in full view of people in tents, so I don’t think that’s a very good idea at the moment.’
‘Go back to your campervan,’ he urges.
My face falls. ‘I can’t. There’s no reception down there.’
‘Are you telling me we can’t do sexy stuff while you’re in Cornwall?’ he asks with disappointment.
‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ I assure him cheekily, but I’m as gutted as he is.
When Elliot and I have said our goodbyes, I head back down to the paddock to get set up. The wide side door of the van opens to reveal a grey and yellow Westfalia interior – which, according to Dad, means something impressive. In front of me is a small open space of about one metre squared. Let’s call it the living room. To my left is a grey bench seat that folds down to form part of the bed – a.k.a. the bedroom. And ahead is what I’d loosely refer to as the kitchen: two cupboards crammed with goodies, a small top-loading fridge under one yellow worktop, and double gas rings and a teeny tiny sink under the other. The layout takes the meaning of ‘open plan’ to a whole new level.
The driver and passenger seats turn around 180 degrees to face the bench seat, so I decide to tackle them first. With quite a bit of jiggery-pokery, I manage the task, before straightening up and bashing my head on the ceiling. Ouch. The roof pops up –popis a debatable word – but, with a bit more manhandling, I’ve enabled some standing space. Just need to put up the table and I’ll be sorted. It stows away in the side door and it’s a while before I can figure out how it clicks into place – Dad did talk me through all of this, honest.
By the time I’m done, I’m even more knackered than I was before. Is ten thirty in the morning too early for a glass of Prosecco?
I decide, regrettably, that it is and elect to make a cup of tea instead, filling up the kettle from bottled water stored under the bench seat, firing up the gas with matches I manage to find in one of the cupboards, and then repeating a similar search in my hunt for teabags and a mug.
I’m sure I’ll get used to all of this eventually.
As I don’t want to waste one minute of precious sunshine, I decide to sit outside on the grass, but have to unpack half of the boot to get to one of the two camping chairs that are buried under my bags. By then the kettle is whistling like a demented blackbird and I almost burn my hand trying to turn the gas off.
Christ, how do people do this?
Let me rephrase the question.Whydo people do this?
Finally –finally– I’m able to sit down and stretch my legs out in front of me, clasping a hard-won hot mug of tea in my hands.
Behind the tall hedge in the next paddock, I can hear children playing badminton. A middle-aged couple in the campervan a few pitches away are making genial conversation to the young couple opposite them. A family of four cycle up the campsite road beside me, huffing and puffing and bickering among themselves. High on the field, a man and a small boy are trying to launch a kite into the air. Birds twitter and chirp in the hedge adjacent toHermieand I just sit there and take it all in.
The sunshine beats down on the top of my head as I sip at my tea and, I have to say, it’s the best cuppa I’ve ever had.
Chapter 5
Do you know what? This isn’t half bad. It was actually kinda cosy inHermielast night with the curtains drawn. I lit the candles in the lantern and read in bed, and, when I went out for one last loo stop, I came back to find the solar-powered fairy lights I’d hooked up around the outside of the van had twinkled into life. I slept well – considering – and this morning I got ready at the refreshingly clean shower block and ate a bowl of fruit-and-nut granola at my little yellow table. Making up the bed was a bit of a faff, as was putting it away again, but, on the whole, I think I might be more cut out for this camping business than I thought.
Of course, there’s always tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next sixty after that.
Hmm.
I’m sure Charlie will have Internet connection, so I don’t bother going up the hill to check my emails. Padstow is just a short walk away from here on the Camel Trail – the one-time railway route that runs right alongside the Camel Estuary – and I smile as I make my way along the picturesque path, moving aside for the occasional cyclist, my rucksack slung over my shoulder. The sun is out and it’s another beautiful day. I can’t wait to get started.
Unfortunately, it all goes pear-shaped from then on in.
Behind Charlie’s front door, April is screaming her head off. I consider walking away again, but Charlie clocks me from the living-room window, where he’s pacing the floor with a phone to his ear.
A moment later, the door whooshes open and the volume inside the house goes up a notch.
