by Fiona Gibson
Hugo and I join in with the cheers for an encore as the band leaves the stage. They reappear and play on as the sky turns from lilac to inky blue, and I turn just as Hugo does. We look at each other, and he smiles, and then we are kissing and kissing with music floating all around and the stars twinkling above. The sewing boy was right. If a day can be perfect, this has definitely been it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Mr Whippy Ice Cream
Just go with it, I tell myself as we make our way back through the crowds. See what happens. Just because we’ve kissed – which was completely lovely – doesn’t mean there’ll be any hopping from pod to pod tonight. And if we do, which doesn’t seem entirely out of the question as we are walking with arms entwined, then that’s fine. It’d be a new thing for me, doing it in a tent. Vince and I went camping a few times – it was the only kind of holiday we could afford – but with Morgan sleeping between us there was no chance of any kind of shenanigans happening. So, if it does happen it’ll be a first for me, doing it with just a layer of the thinnest nylon to separate us from the outside world. Heck, we’ll have to be quiet.
I catch myself, thoughts racing ahead, jumping the gun as usual, wondering if our entwined bodies will somehow be silhouetted against the nylon for all to see. I didn’t bring any condoms either. Terribly remiss, I know, but it didn’t actually cross my mind. Stevie always brought supplies and I’m long out of the habit of carrying any about my person ‘just in case’. Until that night in York, when I met my philandering bastard of a boyfriend, just in case never seemed to happen.
And now, I realise with a racing heart, it really could. It’s 1.20 a.m., and the festival is in full swing. Still holding hands, we stop to watch a man in a pom-pom-covered hat playing some kind of home-made stringed instrument made from a biscuit tin, then wend our way back to the camping field. ‘Oh, Christ,’ Hugo murmurs as his tent comes into view.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Those kids. The teenagers. They’re still up.’
I laugh. ‘Of course they are. I wouldn’t have imagined they’d be tucked up in their sleeping bags by ten o’clock.’
He smiles tensely. ‘No, but look – they seem to have multiplied.’ I follow his gaze, and he’s right: the sewing boy and his friends have been joined by a dozen or so more, and they have congregated in the space between our tents.
‘They’re not causing any trouble, though,’ I add.
‘Yeah,’ he mutters, ‘guess so.’ There are smiles and nodded greetings from the kids, and one couple are kissing fervently.
‘Sorry,’ slurs a boy with a fuzz of ginger hair, as Hugo and I tread carefully between them. ‘Are we in your way, mate?’
‘Not at all,’ Hugo says gallantly, stepping over a girl who is clearly inebriated, her head resting on the sewing boy’s lap. Hugo disappears into the tent and emerges with two bottles of beer, one of which he hands to me. We find a small patch of vacant grass and sip from our bottles.
‘It’s been such a lovely day,’ I venture.
‘Yes, it really has.’ He glances over as the teenagers burst into rowdy laughter. ‘I hope they’re going to calm down, though,’ he adds.
‘I’m sure they will.’
‘D’you think so? They look like they’re up for the night to me.’
I stifle a yawn. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I s’pose not,’ he says. ‘You’re tired, though, I can tell. Shall we turn in for the night?’
I smile. Turn in, how very quaint: it’s what you should do after turndown time. ‘Maybe we should,’ I say. We head into the tent, the teenagers’ chatter still audible. ‘Well, goodnight then,’ I add, wondering if my Dalmatian pyjamas are going to put in an appearance tonight.
‘Goodnight, Audrey.’ Hugo’s gaze meets mine. ‘Look, I’m sorry if I seem a bit out of sorts tonight. You see, I deliberately chose what I thought would be the quietest field, I really didn’t expect—’
‘It’s fine,’ I cut in, laughing. ‘Honestly, I don’t mind a few rowdy kids …’ I pause, and just as I’m thinking, he has a lovely mouth and I’d very much like to kiss him again, he kisses me. It’s such a gentle, tender kiss, it takes my breath away. Even the noise of the boisterous teenagers seems to melt away as he pulls me close. We are kissing harder now, and I shiver with desire.
‘You’re so lovely,’ Hugo murmurs into my ear. ‘I thought that the first time I saw you …’
‘You’re fucking mad!’ A girl’s voice cuts through the air.
We spring apart.
‘No I’m not,’ someone snaps. ‘If you’d just listen to what I’m saying instead of being so bloody right all the time …’ Sounds like sewing boy.
‘So you’re saying he was a good guy?’ the girl shrieks.
‘Who?’ yelps someone else. ‘Who’re you on about now?’
‘Hitler,’ sewing boy barks.
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake,’ mutters Hugo.
‘You’re saying Hitler was a hero?’ someone slurs. ‘You’re mental, Tom …’
‘Nah, nah, what I’m saying is, you could look at it like he’s a genius, right? I mean, if you forget all the bad stuff he did …’
‘Like killing millions of people,’ someone cuts in.
‘Yeah, yeah, if you forget about that, look at what he did …’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, he designed the VW Beetle …’
Someone honks with laughter. ‘He wasn’t a fucking car designer, Tom.’
‘Nah, nah, what was it he invented then … Mr Whippy ice cream?’
‘Jesus Christ,’ Hugo exclaims as I suppress a laugh.
‘That was Margaret Thatcher,’ adds one of the other boys.
‘Is that true?’
‘Yeah!’
‘Nah, it was Hitler, he had this thing about making ice cream …’
‘Mr Whippy wasn’t around then in, like, the forties.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I just know.’
‘Chrissakes, I can’t stand this,’ Hugo mutters, making for the door of the tent.
‘What are you doing?’ I hiss.
‘I’m going to tell them to shut the fuck up.’
I grab at his arm. ‘Please don’t. It’ll seem so, I don’t know—’
‘So what?’ he counters, nostrils flaring.
‘Middle-aged,’ I exclaim. ‘Just leave them to it. They’ll quieten down soon …’
He turns. ‘D’you want to spend all night listening to a load of pissed kids ranting a load of nonsense?’
‘No, not especially, but I don’t really feel like some big confrontation—’
‘What would you do if Morgan was behaving like this?’
I stop short, dumbfounded by his question. ‘You mean, if he was going on about Hitler and Mr Whippy?’
‘Yes!’ Hugo exclaims.
‘Well … I’d probably find it funny.’
‘Really?’
I look at him, wondering how I might explain. ‘That’s teenagers, Hugo. They think they know everything, and that we know nothing. In fact, it’s a miracle we’ve managed to feed and clothe ourselves for forty-odd years …’
‘Yes,’ he counters, ‘but they’re all off their faces.’
‘But don’t you see?’ I shoot back. ‘Even when they’re not, they’re just as opinionated. Isn’t Emily like this?’
He looks horrified. ‘Christ, no, not like this.’ He shakes his head distractedly. ‘Sorry, Audrey. It’s just, I didn’t imagine we’d have to listen to crap like this all night …’
‘Yes, I know, but please don’t go out and confront them. They won’t take any notice anyway.’
He frowns, looking exhausted now. ‘You think so?’
‘I know so,’ I say, meeting the gaze of this kind, handsome man who’s bestowed me with a free festival pass and behaved more chivalrously than anyone I’ve encountered since Vince and I got together. I know it’s possible – we could fall into a pod together a
nd do all manner of lovely things – but the moment has passed. ‘Shall we just go to bed?’ I ask. ‘Separately, I mean.’
‘Of course,’ he says quickly. ‘I didn’t expect …’
‘Look, Hugo, I just …’ I shrug. ‘I’m not sure it’d feel right, you know?’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ he says. Then he kisses me, very chastely, like a cousin might, on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, then,’ he adds, clambering into his own pod and zipping up the entrance very swiftly, right to the top.
The teenagers continue to party throughout the night. While I’m not sure if Hugo is hearing all of this, I am aware of several noisy and dramatic puking incidents, which don’t seem all that shocking really: Sunshine Valley Holiday Park was littered with vomiting teens and the staff were used to mopping up the damage. Maybe it’s me, I reflect, snug in my sleeping bag, my Dalmatian pyjamas buttoned up to the neck. Maybe this kind of behaviour is out of order, and I should be outraged, as Hugo clearly was. Perhaps I’ve just been too lenient.
Hugo’s soft snores drift from his pod. He’s a good man, I decide; successful, considerate and certainly a catch. Not for me, though. Maybe he’s thinking the same or, more likely, he’s still simmering in annoyance over those teenagers. They have calmed down now, as I said they would; although they’re still chatting, they seem to have forgotten about Hitler and Mr Whippy.
I sit up, wide awake now, and unsure whether I have slept at all. Somewhere in the far distance, someone is playing an acoustic guitar. I pull on a sweater over my pyjama top and creep out, with the intention of making my way to the loos. There’s just the sewing boy, and a girl with a cute pixie haircut, huddled close together on their blanket. ‘Hiya,’ he says lazily.
‘Hi,’ I say.
He grins awkwardly. ‘Sorry if we’ve kept you awake.’
‘That’s okay. I’m not sure I’d have slept anyway.’
‘You want some of this?’ He holds out a half-empty wine bottle.
‘No, I’m okay, thanks.’
‘Look,’ the girl says sleepily, ‘at all the stars.’
I glance up: the sky is sparkling, as if sprinkled with glitter. ‘It’s beautiful,’ I murmur.
‘Tom knows about stars,’ she adds.
‘Really?’
He smiles. ‘Yeah. I’m studying astronomy.’
‘Wow, that must be amazing.’
‘Yeah, it is, and it’s a perfect sky tonight. C’mon, lie down and look.’ He indicates a vacant expanse of blanket.
I pause, frowning, reluctant to intrude. ‘Go on,’ the girl says. ‘Tom’ll tell you the names of all the constellations.’
‘Okay,’ I say, stretching out on my back beside them.
‘So that’s Orion,’ he starts, ‘and that bright one, that’s the Pole Star. And over there’s the Great Bear and the Plough. There’s Gemini, Dorado and Hercules …’ I fade off, lulled to sleep by his lilting voice, and when I wake up I am still lying on the blanket outside.
It strikes me, as I turn to see the boy and girl asleep in each other’s arms, that I shouldn’t be here any more. Tom’s grubby toes are poking out from their open sleeping bag, and a flatbread with some kind of oily filling has been trampled into the ground close to the girl’s head. The scene is utterly romantic, and now I know, with absolute certainty, where I need to be.
Hugo doesn’t exactly seem disappointed that I am leaving early. The fact that he trotted off to fetch us coffee and cartons of steaming hot porridge suggests that there’s no bad feeling between us. He is, however, worried about me.
‘Why did you sleep outside, Audrey? Was it my snoring?’
‘No, it wasn’t that,’ I say, picking out a clump of dirt from between my toes. ‘I could still hear you outside. Tents are very thin, you know.’
‘No, really?’ He looks aghast.
‘It wasn’t your snoring,’ I say, laughing. ‘I just went outside because …’ I tail off. ‘I sort of had an urge to be under the stars. It was such a beautiful night.’
He nods and smiles. ‘So, you’re still keen to head home?’
‘Yes, if that’s okay.’
‘Worried about Morgan being alone?’
‘Not exactly,’ I say. ‘There are just … things I should see to at home. I hope you understand.’ He nods, and sees me off to my car.
‘Let’s stay in touch, Audrey,’ he says. ‘Last night was lovely.’
‘It really was,’ I say, squeezing his hand.
‘And Lottie and Tamara have been in contact,’ he adds. ‘Maybe we could all get together?’
‘Yes, I’d love that. Count me in.’ We hug tightly, and I climb into my car, registering my mud-streaked shins and realising I haven’t so much as glanced in a mirror since I left home yesterday. Still, I probably look the part – grubby, dishevelled – as if I do this kind of thing all the time … Yeah, I think as I drive north, radio blaring now, I really can fit in anywhere. Maybe Morgan, Jenna and I could go to a festival together? There were tons of children there, and I could look after the baby while the two of them wander off to festivally things … Being a grandmother needn’t mean quietly knitting, or disappearing into a world of beige. It’ll suit me, I decide, not because I need to feel needed exactly – but because I need to be useful. And this is my family now, about to grow before my very eyes: not just Morgan and me, our tiny unit of two, but Morgan, Jenna and my grandchild. And maybe – just maybe – someone else will be in my life too …
After an hour or so I pull up at a service station, fetch a coffee and something vaguely resembling a madeleine from the café. Back in my car, I call Morgan’s mobile. ‘You’re coming home now?’ he gasps. ‘But you said you’d be home this evening, that’s what you told me—’
I frown and sip my Americano. ‘I’ve just changed my plans, okay? Is that a problem, love?’
‘No, no, it’s fine …’
‘Morgan, why are you freaking out about me coming home early? What’s going on?’
‘I’m not freaking out!’ Christ, he’s had a party. The place is covered in broken glass and puke.
‘What on earth’s happened?’ I exclaim.
‘Nothing,’ he snaps. ‘Nothing’s happened at all.’
My heart feels leaden as I turn off the motorway. Perhaps something really is broken this time and he’s embarking on an emergency fixing mission. At least there’ll be no startling pregnancy discovery. Jenna cannot be any more pregnant than she already is.
It’s just gone eleven when I pull up outside out house. I let myself in – the door is unlocked, come on in, burglars, help yourselves! – and there’s no sign of life, despite Morgan having answered my call earlier. He must have sloped back to bed. On the plus side, nor are there signs of party-inflicted damage, or any hungover teenagers lying about. ‘Morgan?’ I call upstairs. ‘You okay, love?’
No response. I pick up the scattering of mail that’s obviously been lying behind the door since yesterday, and take it through to the kitchen. It’s clean and tidy – suspiciously so. The sink is empty of dishes and the work surfaces are gleaming. I lower myself onto a chair and flip through the mail: phone bill, junk mail, a leaflet detailing up and coming events at the community centre. And a letter, the white envelope handwritten.
A Welsh postmark. I tear it open.
Dear Audrey,
How lovely to hear from you, and what a surprise. About Morgan, I mean. I’m delighted, I really am. I’m sure he’ll be a wonderful father. Do you think I could help?
I stare at her words. Help, with the baby? And how does she know what kind of father Morgan will be?
Things haven’t worked out with Brian, she continues. I’m sorry, a long time ago I made a mistake …
I blink at the page. It has a ragged edge; looks as if she tore it out of a jotter.
If it’s not too late, she has written in her very best handwriting, I’d really like to make things right.
Love, Mum xxx
‘Mum?’ I look up to see Morgan, fu
lly dressed in jeans and T-shirt, despite it not yet being midday.
‘Hi, darling.’ I fold the letter in two.
‘What’s that?’ He narrows his dark eyes.
‘Um, just a letter from Mum.’
‘What, from your mum?’
‘Yes.’ I unfold it and hand it to him.
He frowns and peers at it. ‘She wants to help?’
‘Yes, I know, love …’ I shrug and busy myself by making coffee.
‘But …’ He places it on the table and exhales. ‘When has she ever helped? I mean, you’ve done everything, Mum, all by yourself …’
I laugh dryly, overcome by an urge to hug him which, amazingly, he allows. ‘I didn’t think you’d noticed.’
‘God, ’course I have.’ He disentangles himself and pushes his fringe out of his eyes. ‘It’s just … d’you want her getting involved, after all this time?’
‘I don’t see why not, do you? I mean, I think we’ll need all the help we can get …’
‘Yeah,’ he laughs, ‘I guess. Anyway, how was the festival?’
‘Oh, you know. It was fun.’
He grins, studying my face. ‘Overdo things a bit, did you? You should be careful at your age.’
‘Well, I did sleep under the stars,’ I tell him. ‘I even learnt the names of some constellations.’
‘Right, so it was educational, then.’ He barks with laughter. ‘Yeah, I thought you must be a bit wrecked …’
‘Morgan, I’m not wrecked!’
‘ …’Cause you haven’t noticed, have you?’
‘Oh, I have, love. The place looks great. In fact, the kitchen’s tidier than I left it. Thank you, love, it feels good to be back.’
‘I am capable of looking after things around here,’ he adds, perching on the edge of the table. ‘You, er … haven’t noticed anything else, have you?’
‘No, should I have?’ He glances towards the window, and I follow his gaze. ‘Oh!’ I gasp, registering the view. The wheelie bins have disappeared from our back yard, and the plain brick walls now bear a row of hanging baskets bursting with bright yellow flowers. ‘Oh, Morgan! They’re lovely. Did you put those up?’
