Hal is going to wend his way home, taking the scenic route as always. He talked about his itinerary on the way here – it’s going to be a fourteen-day tour of lesser-known campsites, stopping in Paris en route for a little bit of culture.
If I’m honest, I have new admiration for Hal after this trip. I thought I’d easily take to working from home, or on the road, but if I’m honest, I haven’t done half as much work as I thought I would on this trip. Even before the infection, I was slacking off.
But Hal’s been on the phone here and there, opened his laptop and fired a few emails. I’ve caught him late at night, sitting up to get this or the other task done. Somehow, he’s managing to keep a successful business afloat in his spare time. I always imagined him doing the absolute minimum, but actually the guy works pretty hard. And it takes more discipline to be your own boss when you’re surrounded by holidaymakers than I gave him credit for.
The sun is still beating down and Mum’s garden looks glorious, somehow defying the weather to remain relatively green and lush. But even so, the place is a lot duller without Louis and Summer there. I watch a burgundy ribbon missed by the event organisers blow lightly across the grass and think about how quickly what had been a fixed date in my future has now become something in my past.
Then, when I’ve had enough of my own inner voice, I wander into the kitchen where Mum is brewing a pot of coffee. ‘Thought you might like one of these,’ she says.
‘Yes please.’
I slip onto a bar-stool and wait, feeling a little like a customer in a café. Everything seems muted, still. The only sounds are the little squeals and hisses of the machine as it boils water and forces it through coffee granules.
‘Where’s Hal?’ Mum asks. ‘Do you think he’ll want one?’
‘Oh, he popped into town. He wants to get someone to check Betty over.’
Mum’s eyes catch mine. ‘Betty?’ she says, raising an eyebrow. ‘We’re on first name terms with her now, too, are we?’
‘Yeah, I suppose it’s catching,’ I admit.
‘I thought you said naming a camper-van was ridiculous.’
‘Yep. Guilty as charged.’ I take the steaming cup of black coffee from Mum’s hand and blow across the top, sending steam forward. The delicious aroma floods my senses. ‘I think it’s spending so many days with her that’s changed my mind.’
‘Or with him?’ Mum questions, adding milk and sugar to her own cup.
‘No! Not like that.’
‘OK,’ she says, looking at me slightly askance but electing not to say anything.
The silence returns and I try to think of something to say. ‘I’ve booked the train,’ I tell her. ‘For tomorrow. If you could maybe give me a lift to the station?’
‘Oh, so soon?’
‘Yeah,’ I grimace. ‘Work’s stacking up a bit. I haven’t really stayed on top of it.’
‘Of course.’
‘I think Hal’s going tomorrow too – all being well with Bett—the camper.’
‘Right. So back to business as usual!’ she says, her upbeat tone sounding painfully forced.
Outside, I can hear the throaty sound of an older car trying to tackle the steep hill, then, when it’s either passed or given up, thesmaller sounds of Mum’s rural idyll are audible again: the chirp of birds, the noise of the odd passing car or motorbike. I picture the hill, how it slopes down to the azure sea and imagine what it would be like to live here. Days on the beach, long evenings on the terrace. Always being in paradise. ‘It’s lovely here, Mum,’ I say. ‘You’re so lucky.’
‘Yes, well,’ she says. ‘You get used to it after a time.’
I open my mouth to say that I can’t imagine ever getting used to living somewhere so beautiful, then I think of my own home town, Cambridge. How people come from all over the world to see its historic buildings, the weathered stone of its colleges with their gargoyles and stained-glass windows; the river with its endless stream of students and tourists on punts. It’s easy to stop seeing the beauty where you live, to become complacent.
‘And you have your friends,’ I remind her. ‘You seem to make friends much more easily than I ever have.’
‘Oh,’ she flaps her hand dismissively. ‘You find when you move somewhere with limited language, it’s much easier to find like-minded people. English-speakers sort of congregate together.’
‘I can understand that.’
Mum’s original intention when moving to France four years ago had been to learn French. I told her at the time she might find it harder than she expected. ‘Good grief, Sarah!’ she’d told me. ‘How hard can it be? They teach it to five-year-olds!’
I know that she signed up for classes when she first arrived, but she hasn’t mentioned them for a while. I decide not to ask.
