When the satnav directs me down a tree-lined road that leads into the campsite, fear creeps up my spine. I try to concentrate on the instructions Dad gave me to get to their caravan.Take the first left, right at the clubhouse and follow the shore of the lake. …
Very quickly, it becomes clear this isn’t anything like the campsites we stayed on when I was young. First of all, there are hardly any children: the people staying here are mainly middle-aged or retirement age, and mainly couples. I see a spa and massage center, the equipment for all kinds of watersports, and something called a “floating sauna.” Plus, there are signs and posters for language classes, a nature trail, and an exhibition by an artist-in-residence. The accommodation seems to be largely in static caravans thatlook more like luxury chalets. Outside each are high-end cars, many of them electric, many with their own charging points.
I spot a much more modest car I think belongs to Dad and stop to look closer. In the rear window, I recognize a Manchester United sticker. Yeah, that’s it. …
My heartbeat races as I pull up alongside it and switch off my engine.
Dad and Debbie must have been listening, because they open the door and step out of the caravan. Dad’s wearing sports shorts and trainers, with a blue-striped polo shirt that’s a little too tight for his belly. His hair is still thick and predominantly the color of milk chocolate, with only patches of gray at the front and sides. Debbie’s dressed in pink sandals, gray shorts and an eggplant-colored sleeveless top that complements her—presumably dyed—brunette hair. Their skin is still pale, although Dad’s already managed to get sunburnt on his nose.
“Alreet, lad,” he says.
We exchange bright smiles and awkward hugs, and I realize my forehead has broken into a stress sweat. I wipe it with my forearm.
“After all these weeks, I still haven’t got used to the heat,” I lie.
“I’m not surprised,” says Dad. “It’s crackin’ flags.”
“I’m t’ same, love,” offers Debbie. “I’m sweatin’ cobs.” She suggests we go inside, where it’s cooler.
The caravan has several high-tech air-conditioning units that are mounted on the walls, plus real wood floors, an enormous flat-screen TV, and patio doors leading onto a terrace equipped with sun loungers and a hot tub.
“Well, this is nice,” I coo.
“It’s dead posh, i’n’t it?” says Debbie.
Scattered around are framed photos of a family, at the center of them a woman in her fifties who I recognize from Debbie’s retirement party as her former boss.
Dad sits on the L-shaped sofa, taking up most of one side with his huge frame. I perch across from him.
Debbie starts fussing over the drinks, running through a list of the cans and bottles in the fridge. “Or I’m brewin’ up,” she says. “We always bring our own PG Tips.”
I’m about to say no, thanks, and ask for something cold, but stop myself and say yes.
Debbie fills the kettle and drops tea bags into three mugs. She’s a sturdy woman with thick arms, but agile and still sprightly. She’s always been eager to please but today she seems nervous. “Sorry, love, I can’t remember if you take sugar,” she says.
“No, thanks.”
In her flustered state, she puts a teaspoon of it in my mug. As I watch her tip the contents down the sink and start again, I feel a stab of guilt for the hostility I used to show her. I’m not surprised I make her nervous.
I overcompensate by being wildly cheerful. “The campsite looks fab!”
Debbie seems relieved to be on safe ground. “I know! You want to see t’ clubhouse—it’s like bein’ in a five-star hotel.”
Dad flashes her a cheeky grin. “They don’t have beer on draft, though. Only bottles.”
Debbie gasps. “Mart! I don’t know how I put up wi’ you!” But her tone is affectionate. “Finally, we get the chance to come somewhere classy and all you can do is moan about t’ beer.”
“Not just t’ beer,” Dad teases. “They also don’t have anywhere to watch t’ football.”
“What are you like?” Debbie rolls her eyes and brings the tea over. She sits down next to Dad and he shuffles to one side.
“How’s Theo, love?” she asks.
I feel a twinge of discomfort. I haven’t officially told them Theo’s my boyfriend, although they obviously know.
“Does he still support Man City?” pipes Dad.
My discomfort doubles. Why does Dad always have to make it about football?
