‘I went to visit once as a child, and there were hundreds of those funny vans, the ones that play the tinkly music. It was amazing. I’d never seen anything like it.’ Tom looks enthralled, and in an instant I’m reminded of the chasmic contrast in our backgrounds. Tom was home-schooled in Italy by a string of private tutors until he was fifteen, followed by a year at an exclusive polo school in Argentina and then on to Harvard when he was only seventeen. And that might explain why he calls his parents by their first names, almost as if they’re strangers. No wonder he was fascinated by a mere ice-cream van. I can’t imagine they featured much in his precision-built childhood. ‘I’ll call him this evening and get him on board.’
‘Oh Tom, thank you so much.’ He leans his head towards mine and I manage to reach carefully across the bags to give him a kiss on the cheek.
‘No problem. I’ll do whatever I can to help out. It’s fun and makes a change to be talking about something other than sales projections and supplier contracts. Anything else you need?’ he asks eagerly, obviously keen to embrace his lighter side – his face has even taken on a boyish charm. I love seeing him like this; it’s such a stark contrast to the business-like demeanour he portrays instore.
‘Don’t suppose you have another uncle with a carousel, by any chance?’ I still haven’t managed to sort one out.
‘Err, no! Sorry. Afraid not.’ Tom laughs and shrugs apologetically.
8
We pull up outside the retirement complex overlooking Mulberry Common and Dad is walking down the path to meet us. He looks really well, all short sleeves and gardener’s tan, and I’m sure his hair is a little longer than last time I saw him – darker too, come to think of it; he’s obviously still using the Just For Men to hold on to a more youthful look to belie his near-septuagenarian status. Dusty, his very shiny black Labrador, is bouncing along beside him.
After paying the driver, Tom and I grab two bags each and head towards Dad. Dusty makes a beeline for me, licking the back of my hand before pushing her nose into one of the bags. Laughing, I stroke her silky ear and gently nudge her head away – I can’t imagine she’s starving. Dad dotes on her. Nancy too. And I know for a fact that Nancy cooks special dinners with rice and chicken all chopped up into little bite-size pieces, which I’ve then seen Dad hand-feed to Dusty while she’s sprawled out in the middle of their sofa with a very regal look on her face.
‘Georgie, it’s lovely to see you. And Tom, how are you son?’ Dad gives me a kiss before shaking Tom’s hand and pressing his shoulder warmly.
‘Very well, sir, and how are you?’ Tom says politely, returning to his formal, business-like manner, and I swear his Downton accent (upstairs, naturally) just got a little more pronounced.
‘As I said last time we met, I’d be far happier if you called me George. No need to stand on ceremony, Tom, not when you’re practically family,’ Dad pretends to chide, crinkling the corners of his eyes as he shakes his head.
‘Sorry George.’ Tom laughs.
‘Come on then, let’s get inside.’ Dad rubs his hands together jovially. ‘Nancy can’t wait to see you both, she’s just taken Daisy out for a run down to the corner shop to fetch some biscuits – she won’t be long.’
‘Oh Dad, she really didn’t need to do that. I said we’d bring lunch – see here, there’s plenty of food.’ Tom and I simultaneously lift the carrier bags as confirmation.
‘She likes to, sweetheart, you know how hospitable she is … and you can never have too many biscuits.’ Dad’s smile widens as he places an arm around Tom’s shoulders before leading him inside. I follow behind, pleased to see them getting on so well as always.
Dad is typing the number code into the security keypad on the communal door, when a spluttering noise followed by a loud bang behind us makes me jump – Dusty, too. She cowers sharply in shock before panting excessively. Dad grabs her collar and gives her a calming stroke to slow down her breathing. Dusty is a rescue dog, so who knows what has happened to her in a previous life? It’s heartbreaking, if I let myself think too much about it.
‘Ah, just in time. Here they are,’ Dad says. We turn around. Oh my God. So this must be Daisy. My worst fears are confirmed – the camper van is ancient! Admittedly, it’s very pretty and stylish, and it looks even better than it did in the picture, with yellow gingham curtains at the little windows and a couple of patchwork cushions propped jauntily on the back seat. But I can’t help feeling panicky all over again. Especially on seeing that Nancy has abandoned it with one of the front wheels mounted on the actual pavement, having obviously misjudged the kerb’s whereabouts. How on earth are they going to manage getting to the Eurotunnel, not to mention having to drive on the right-hand side of the road when they arrive on the Continent. What happens if they forget and end up going the wrong way along a motorway? Although, mind you, one saving grace – I reckon Daisy’s top speed is only about 30 mph, so plenty of time for all the French drivers to spot them and swerve out of their way. But still, I can’t help thinking it’s a disaster waiting to happen.
Nancy climbs out and slams the heavy door behind her before bustling around to the passenger seat, patting her neat blonde hair back into place and pulling out a massive tin of shortbread biscuits, three packets of custard creams, two packets of bourbons and a cardboard cylinder of milk chocolate digestives which she piles up on top of the tin – she can barely see over her biscuit mountain. After quickly handing my two food bags to Tom, I dart forward to give Nancy a hand.
‘Thank you, my dear, and I’m so sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. How are you?’ Nancy asks, as I take the custard creams and bourbons from her.
‘I’m very well, Nancy, but you really didn’t need to go to any trouble on our account. I did spring the visit on you, after all.’ I feel guilty now. I shouldn’t have been so impulsive.
‘And what a lovely surprise it is, plus I’ve got your favourites.’ Nancy motions with her head to the chocolate digestives balanced on top of the tin. ‘Come inside, I’ll put the kettle on and we can have a nice catch-up,’ she says warmly.
*
I can barely move, I’m that stuffed. Between us, we managed to polish off all the food and just about stagger to the lounge with its swirly patterned carpet and big squishy sofas, where we’re now enjoying a cup of tea and a pile of biscuits. It would have been rude not to. Nancy laid them all out on a big silver platter and made a proper pot of tea with rose-patterned china cups on saucers, milk in a matching jug and sugar cubes in a bowl set out on a doily-covered tray.
‘So, where are you planning on taking Daisy?’ It’s Tom who finally addresses the whopping big elephant in the room – somehow, the actual reason for our impromptu visit got avoided over lunch.
‘Well, we want to cover as much ground as we can,’ Dad starts. ‘The glorious French countryside, I’ve always fancied wandering through a vineyard. Then, on to Spain. We might even hop over to Marrakesh to visit the souks.’
‘Yes that would be marvellous.’ Nancy joins in. ‘I’d love a pair of those colourful canvas shoes they sell with the tassels on. Just like Aladdin wears. We could bring you back a pair, Georgie.’ Nancy beams and I manage a smile, already concocting a plan inside my head as to how my new Aladdin shoes might mysteriously disappear. ‘And what about Turkey?’ Nancy continues.
‘Oh yes. We could have a suck on one of those hookah pipes, love!’ Daaad. Nooooo. Just no! My jaw drops – I stare at Dad and Nancy, goggle-eyed and speechless, as they both nod enthusiastically. What’s going on? This isn’t the Dad and Nancy I know – Dad, especially, is usually so traditional, set in his ways, with his old-school views and values, but now? Well, it’s as if they’ve been possessed by a pair of much younger, and far funkier free-thinkers. Next they’ll be doing t’ai chi on Mulberry Common and converting to Buddhism.
‘The rose-fragranced hookah is supposed to be the best – that’s what they were saying on that programme we watched last week. Have you seen it, Georgie?’ Nancy
says, earnestly. ‘It’s on the Discovery Channel and called Travel the World Before It’s Too Late, or something like that.’
Ahh, I get it, now it’s all starting to make sense – they’ve been watching too much television and have got carried away; turned into armchair explorers, only their armchair is sunshine yellow, camper-van-shaped and with a special pet name, Daisy!
‘And Italy, we can’t miss that out – Tom, you’ll have to jot down the best places for us to visit.’ Dad grins while Tom nods before glancing at me with a circumspect look on his face. ‘We’re not getting any younger, so who knows when we might get the chance again,’ Dad finishes cheerily, before plopping three sugar cubes in his tea and giving it a good stir, seemingly oblivious to the enormity of the trip he’s about to undertake.
‘Wow, that’s some itinerary you have there, George.’ Tom looks impressed as he lets out a long puff of air. ‘So, how long do you reckon you’ll be away for?’
‘Ooh, a good few months, I reckon. Certainly the whole summer. Back in September some time, I reckon …’
‘Months? But Dad you can’t go away for months!’ I blurt out, instantly wishing I didn’t sound like a moany teenager all of a sudden. Tom surreptitiously squeezes my hand.
‘Why not?’ Dad frowns.
‘Well, um … what if something happens?’ I ask, thinking: so much for a day trip to Calais … this is a proper road trip they have planned – they could be bombing around Lake Garda negotiating hairpin bends before the week is out!
‘Like what?’ Dad helps himself to a custard cream and then gives it a good dunk in his tea.
‘I think Georgie’s just a bit worried about your health,’ Tom says diplomatically.
‘Yes, what about your angina? I bet your GP won’t be happy about you travelling so far and being away for such a long time. Don’t you have to have regular check-ups?’ I say, feeling panicky … and, if I’m being totally honest, perhaps a teeny-weeny bit jealous. I’d love to take off on a road trip to wander around vineyards and suck on hookah pipes. Maybe after the regatta!
‘Dr Sanghera was very enthusiastic, wasn’t he, Nancy?’
‘Ooh, yes dear – said the sun, sea air and sense of adventure will do us both the world of good. Which reminds me, we must get some of that spray-on sun cream. I’ll put it on our list. Have you seen it, Georgie? It’s very good.’ I nod politely, but the panic increases. What if something happens? ‘It saves on all that rubbing in and messy hands palaver. Just one spray and away you go.’ Nancy makes big eyes and waves a flamboyant hand in the air.
‘But what if you need medical assistance?’ I turn back to Dad, keen to check that he’s at least considered the risks.
‘Darling, we have it all covered – we got a superb insurance policy through the bank, and they do have doctors in other countries, you know. Besides, it’s not as if we’re going to the Gobi desert!’ Thank God.
‘And what about Dusty? Have you thought about her?’ Ha! I bet they haven’t. And on hearing her name, Dusty bombs over to me for a quick cuddle. I duly oblige by running my hand over her head. She thanks me by resting her chin on my knee and wagging her tail.
‘Of course we have! And it really wouldn’t be fair to keep her cooped up inside Daisy for such a length of time and then subject her to all that heat, so she’s staying with Len and Beryl next door. Len likes a good stroll around the park of a morning, so Dusty will get her walks, and she often pops into theirs in the afternoon for a snooze on the sofa, so she’ll be right at home with them,’ Dad says in a very cheery voice. ‘Nancy, can you add that to our list please, love? We mustn’t forget to stock up on those treats Dusty loves.’
‘Right you are, George, and we’d better get a dozen boxes and leave some money too so they can replenish when stocks run out.’ Nancy reaches across to the coffee table for her notepad with the fridge magnet on the back. ‘And I’ll get some packs of cooked chicken for Beryl’s freezer. We can’t expect her to cook from scratch every day for Dusty, like I do.’ Hmmm, so they have it all worked out then, it seems.
Dad turns to me. ‘Georgie, we’ll be fine sweetheart. Please try not to worry, we’ll keep in touch.’ He leans across the sofa to pat my arm.
‘But this means you won’t be here for my birthday,’ I say, feeling a bit dejected, especially after all the birthdays he missed in the past; but then I quickly realise that I’m a grown woman, and not the child I was when he went to prison. Besides, I have Tom now, too, and my birthday surprise to look forward to – very exciting! I wonder what it is …
‘Well, you could always come and join us for a weekend if you don’t mind mucking in, and there’s plenty of room inside Daisy, plus the weather on the Med is glorious this time of year,’ Dad says jovially, and I shrivel a little inside. I can’t imagine Tom has ever shacked up in a clapped-out old camper van covered in yellow daisies. ‘It would be so much fun, especially now we have the awning. You know, it clips onto the side of the van just like a huge tent. And we can always take extra air beds and sleeping bags for the pair of you, save you having to lug them all the way over.’ Oh God. I know he’s trying to be kind, but … And I can just picture Isabella’s face on hearing about our camping trip.
It’s Tom who jumps in. ‘Mr—’ he manages, before Dad interrupts.
‘Tom, how many times have I said … it’s George to you, son, no need for such formality.’ Dad smiles warmly and a pang of guilt hits me. He means well. I’m being mean – it could be fun, sleeping in a field or in a layby by the beach listening to the waves lap the shore … back to nature and all that. It could be an adventure.
‘Sorry, George,’ Tom smiles. ‘We’d love to visit and camp with you in Daisy, but we already have plans for Georgie’s birthday,’ he starts, and I want to hug him, he’s so kind. I know he’d hate sleeping in a tent; he told me he tried camping as a boy and swore he’d never ever do it again – he loves his home comforts far too much. Me too.
‘Well, I’m sure there will be plenty of other times. You never know, we might really get the bug for it and venture further afield next time … The Australian bush!’ Silence fills the little sitting room. I hold my breath. ‘Only joking!’ Dad laughs, but I’m sure I spot a faraway look in his eye.
Before I can grill him further, my phone buzzes with a text message. It’s from Dan, replying to the text I sent him after the first regatta meeting.
Yes, count me in! If you fancy coming to my event on Saturday, we can chat at the aftershow party. I’ll get details and invites sent over to you.
Ah, that’s nice. I knew he’d be up for it. I quickly tap out a reply, and then realise the time.
‘Dad, Nancy, sorry, but we’re going to have to get going. I have a client this afternoon,’ I say, hauling myself out of the armchair – I really shouldn’t have had that fifth bourbon biscuit.
‘Well, thanks for popping over, dear, it’s always a treat to catch up.’ Nancy gets up to see us out. I give her and Dad a hug; Tom does too.
‘I’ll call you, Georgie, before we head off,’ Dad says, pulling open the front door and squeezing my hand as I step outside. ‘And do stop worrying. We’ll be fine!’ he waves after us.
Oh God, I really hope so … I couldn’t bear it if something happened to either of them.
9
The regatta plans are coming together really nicely now, and I needn’t have panicked at all, as Betty, Annie, and someone from practically every department instore has volunteered to get involved and help out. #TeamCarringtons has had six weekly lunchtime meetings now in the staff canteen, and we’ve even managed to source a carousel – it turned out that Annie’s Uncle Mikey used to work on the funfairs, so he put me in touch with a man just along the coast in Brighton who was more than happy to agree to turn up and spin the horses in exchange for a pound a ride. So, thankfully, I’ve managed to cross ‘carousel’ off my seemingly never-ending ‘to do’ list.
‘OK, so everyone is agreed then?’ It’s Annie. We’re in the sta
ff canteen and just about to wrap up our seventh meeting. ‘That I’m the deputy #TeamCarringtons boss?’
‘Fine by me, dear,’ Betty says, finishing the last of her tea. ‘I’ve got enough on my plate at home with lazy Luke.’ She smiles wryly before sitting back and folding her arms.
‘And fine by me too,’ Denise from Home Electrical says to Annie. ‘But only if I can be in charge of the brochures – making sure all the ice-cream vans have a big bundle to sell. I want to liaise with that Matt from the council. He is hot,’ she laughs. Matt popped instore last week to see how I was getting on, so I invited him to join in our lunchtime meeting, and now Denise is clearly smitten. ‘Georgie, do you know if he’s single?’
‘Sorry, no idea,’ Denise’s forehead creases with disappointment, ‘but I’ll see what I can find out,’ I quickly add, and she grins like a loon.
‘Thanks, Georgie.’
‘OK, so to recap, we’re pretty much there then – we have a carousel, thanks Annie,’ she nods as I click to update my project plan with Uncle Mikey’s friend’s mobile number. ‘And you’re going to be the go-between with the council to make sure he has permission to set up the day before – and that all the legal stuff, health and safety, etc., is sorted out. Would you like some help with any of that?’
‘Nope. Thanks anyway, but I have it all under control,’ she says, smoothing down her black uniform top and straightening her gold Carrington’s name badge.
‘Great. And thank you! I do appreciate all your help. So, that leaves the tunnel tours …’ I tab through the project plan until I find the right place and type an update. ‘Mrs Grace has agreed to conduct the tours; they’ll be every hour and tickets are already available to buy on the Carrington’s website, and the official regatta website, too, which went live last week. Plus, she’s also liaising with her publicist to see about organising a series of short readings from her book, with the option to buy a copy and have it signed at the end of each tour, which is a very nice touch.’
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