I shake my head. ‘Just being pathetic really. I think it’s normal to get a bit of pain. I’ll just up my dose when we get back to Betty.’
‘OK, but I mean it. If you want to see a doctor, let me know. Better safe than sorry.’
‘Where did you come from?’ I ask, feeling better now as my body cools and my leg gets some much-needed rest.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I can’t imagine the Hal I knew back in the day being so caring, attentive.’
‘I guess I grew up,’ he says, and gives me a smile that’s tinged with sadness.
‘I guess we both did.’
There’s an awkward silence for a moment before he leaves to get us both a proper drink, by which I think he means coffee rather than alcohol. I watch him make his way across the lawn to the glass-doored café area, somehow adorable and oddly fragile in his crumpled shorts and T-shirt.
When Louis was younger, I used to worry so much about him spending the weekend with Hal. Not because Hal didn’t absolutely dote on him, but because I couldn’t imagine him noticing if Louis was overtired, or knowing what to do when he complained of tummy ache. I couldn’t imagine him reading the signs or changing plans if Louis was feeling under the weather.
I’d ring or I’d send text reminders to check for this and that, send Louis with bottles of Calpol and written reminders about bedtime and making sure he had his favourite toy to cuddle.
But maybe Hal had it in him all the time. I was so absorbed by caring for my son that I didn’t believe anyone else was capable of taking over for me.
Before I can reflect more, Hal returns with black coffees, together with a plate of heart-shaped palmiers. We tuck in incompanionable silence and then, when suitably refreshed, he orders a taxi to take us back to the campsite.
In the back of the cab, I send a quick text to Louis updating him on our location and checking that everything’s OK his end. But he doesn’t reply.
14
HAL
‘What’s the next site like?’ Sarah asks me, her tone forcibly nonchalant.
We left La Grande Tortue early this morning and have driven for about an hour. The sun is up, and the scenery is changing from flat to undulating, gentle dips and lifts that challenge Betty’s suspension but look gorgeous through the window.
‘What do you mean?’ I feign innocence.
‘I mean,’ she says, ‘do I have to brace myself for a field of dry cowpats and a shower that could easily double as a cattle shed?’
My laugh sounds slightly squeaky, even to me.
In truth, I don’t spend much time choosing my campsites when I’m on a trip. As far as I’m concerned, my accommodation doesn’t really change – I’m always sleeping in Betty – so I search for places closest to whatever I’m actually visiting. Chateaux, woodland walks, wild lakes or cities.
But I’m a bloke and I suppose we’re less complicated creatures. We can pee pretty much anywhere (especially in France) and although I like to think of myself as pretty clean, a strip wash or a river swim will do me when I’m on the move.
It all seems fine when I’m on the road alone, but now I’m seeing each stop through Sarah’s eyes, some of the places I’ve stayed in are admittedly… substandard. This morning, I frantically googled the next site on my phone and found it was yet again based on a working farm.
This doesn’t necessarily spell disaster, of course. Some farm stays I’ve stopped at before have been welcoming and clean and well serviced. It’s just, whatever the websites might say, they’re often hit and miss.
‘Hal?’ she says now. ‘Is it a farm?’
‘What? Um, sorry, didn’t catch that.’
‘Is it a farm?’
‘It might be. But honestly, I don’t think it’ll be anything like last time,’ I say, hoping to God I’m right.
‘It’d better not be.’ It’s hard to tell from her tone whether Sarah is serious or pulling my leg. But I feel a prickle of dread either way.
My inability to properly plan a trip is odd, as I’m pretty much on the ball when it comes to work. I almost made the shortlist for Tech Whizz 2023. I’m quick to respond, keep abreast of the latest developments, and manage to keep one step ahead of the competitors. Which is not at all bad for a bloke whose school reports branded him as ‘disorganised’ and ‘scatterbrained’. It’s just my personal life that’s in disarray.
