Page 25 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
The view is breathtaking—the sun dappling golden stripes on the waves, seabirds white smudges in a crystal-clear sky, the whole horizon stretching out endlessly before us. A perfect panorama.
I pour myself and Charlie a glass each as we stare out at the edge of the world. I remember all the days, months, years, of living here. Seeing Charlie grow up: his friends coming for sleepovers, the garden swarming with little princes and pirates at birthday parties. Quiet mornings with a good book and a pot of coffee on the patio. Baking wonky cakes, watching movies, puttering around with my plants. The challenges, the contentment, the sense of security it gave us.
“A toast to our former cottage,” I say, raising a glass at the rubble, the dumpster, the abandoned sofa. “May she rest in peace.”
“We had some great times here, Mum,” Charlie says sadly. “I can’t believe it’s really gone.”
“I know,” I say, giving him a cuddle. “But it’s time to move on—and we will have great times somewhere else, my love. I’m sure of it.”
Chapter 9
I sleep amazingly well that first night. It is all a bit of a tight squeeze, and all a bit foreign and strange, and the three of us are on our very best behavior. There is one moment, when Charlie goes to use the Mona Lisa while Luke clears up our dishes and I go into the wet room to change into my PJs, when I wonder what kind of madness has gripped me—is this an insane thing to be doing? And if the answer to that is yes, is it good insane or bad insane? Only time will tell.
When I wake up, though, it is a peaceful and gradual emergence into consciousness—a luxuriously slow process that involves lots of stretching and languid eye opening, and the comforting sensation of being wrapped up in cotton somewhere safe. It is a feeling I have not had for a very long time, and when I eventually drag myself up, I am awash with an unexpected sense of optimism. It is very early, and the birds are singing, and I have nowhere to be but here.
We all take it gently that morning, Luke showing me how to wrap and pack the remaining breakable items for the journey, Charlie bleary-eyed but happy as he clambers down his ladder, Betty clearly loving all the new human company.
Eventually, we are ready to leave, and Luke is settled in the driver’s seat up front. There are three seats there, and they all swivel around so they can face into the main cabin. I have packed away my bed, and on the small table next to me is one of Luke’s baseball caps, filled with crumpled-up pieces of paper. It is an exciting moment. We have decided that Charlie will choose, and I am doing a fake drumroll with my palms against the wood.
Charlie dips into the hat and pulls out a scrap—a scrap that will determine the next few days of our lives.Yes, I think,it is insane—but so far, so good.
“So,” says Luke from his swivel chair, “the deed is done. Where to, Captain?”
Charlie opens up the paper and frowns. Obviously not one of his, from the look on his face. “Erm... we’re going to Wuthering Heights?” he says eventually. “No idea where that is...”
It’s not one of mine either, so I look over to our driver for some clarification.
“Ah,” he says, grinning and looking slightly sheepish, “that’s from me. And no, it’s not a place. It’s a song. And a book. And a film. But for me, it’s a song... I just got a bit carried away last night.”
“And by ‘carried away,’ you mean you had two pints of that real ale with the weird name?” I reply.
“It’s called Scratchum’s Wobbling Frog, which I think is a perfectly reasonable name. But... yeah, maybe it did influence some of my choices? We can skip it if you like?”
“No way!” says Charlie so emphatically that Betty looks shocked and yips her disapproval. “First rule of Motorhome Club is... um... that doesn’t really work... but let’s do it! Isn’t it in Yorkshire, the book? Let’s go there! And also, while we’re making confessions, I had a drink last night too, so some of mine might be a bit random...”
“You had two glasses of prosecco!”
“Well, I’m just a lightweight, aren’t I, Mum? Not a professional like you! Yorkshire then?”
I nod, keen to move away from the subject of my drinking skills.Wuthering Heights... I remember reading it when I was much younger. It was wild, and passionate, and, truth be told, a little bit creepy. I remember the sense of isolation, the way the Moors were almost a character in their own right. It felt like a landscape that could swallow you whole. I also remember that the Bronte family lived in a small town in Yorkshire, and wonder if we could combine the two and really get this magical quest off to a rip-roaring start. “Yes. Let’s do that,” I say. “Luke, head for Yorkshire—and we’ll look up the rest! Let the adventures begin!”
He gives me a jaunty salute and turns his chair around. We buckle up our seat belts, the various guidebooks and gazettes spread out on the table in front of us, my new laptop at the ready. Luke presses Play on his music system, and I hear what may or may not be Led Zeppelin coming from the speakers. Rock and roll at just after seven. The early start, he says, is the key to successful travel.
He drives slowly and carefully away from the field, and I wave at the donkeys as we pass their enclosure. I don’t look backward at our old home—I keep my eyes firmly forward, because I don’t want a random glimpse of the sofa to make me cry again. A quick glance at Charlie shows me he is too engrossed in a book about wild swimming to be having a moment of melancholy. Attaboy.
“Okay,” says Luke, lowering the music and navigating the motorhome onto the lane that runs into town, “I’m going to head for the A17 north, and once I hit that, the route is up to you guys. Choose whichever way you like—doesn’t matter if we make detours, get lost, go backward, drive in circles. The journey, my friends, is what matters!” He grins and looks delighted with it all. The music goes back on, and I find myself smiling too as I turn to my laptop.
Much to Charlie’s relief, Luke has a Wi-Fi setup that involves an antenna on the roof, a router, and a SIM card. I’m told it works pretty much anywhere there is a decent signal. It’s all frightfully clever and way beyond my understanding, but I take the blessing and go online. Luke has sent me links to a few specialist sites and blogs about motorhoming, where like-minded souls share tips and details of great spots to stop off. It is, I have been told, very important to find places where you can empty the waste tanks and charge up. I get busy researching the Brontes and the Moors and finding a fun route. I am looking forward to heading inland—I have lived by the sea for the whole of my life, and I love it. But now is a time for fresh experiences.
Sitting across from me, Charlie is now fascinated by a massive tome calledThe Modern Antiquarian. It looks well used.
“This is brilliant,” he says, staring at the pages. “It’s, like, got all of the stone circles and long barrows in it.”
“Cool. What’s a long barrow? Is it what giants use in their garden?”
“Ha-ha. No. Long barrows are, apparently, Neolithic structures. Some had bodies in them, some were chambers. Nobody really knows for sure exactly what they were used for, but there are some pretty excellent ones still around. I think I could quite get into this. There’s loads of Post-it notes in here too; reckon Luke’s a bit of a Druid on the side...”
I glance at the pile of books. Some of them are standard—road maps, guides to national parks, that kind of thing. But a few others are stranger—there’s one calledWild Ruins BC, another about Britain’s holiest places. A folded-upGreat British Music Map; the extremely encouragingYe Olde Good Inn Guide. A veritable delight of weird unknown locations just waiting to be discovered. After a bit of research, I tell Luke to pull off onto asmaller road, deciding unilaterally that this is not a motorway kind of day. I’ve been living at a service station hotel for the last week, and the thrill of Costa Coffee in takeaway cups has worn off.
