Page 51 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
“Can we go and see them?”
Chapter 15
I agree to Charlie’s request, despite the lump of anxiety that lodges in my throat, where it makes itself comfy and takes up permanent residence. It is time, I decide. Time for him to meet them, time for me to face my past, time to see what an alternative future might look like.
My mind has readily provided various catastrophes to keep me tense, of course. Turning up and finding out they’ve moved. Turning up and them refusing to speak to me. Turning up to find that one or both of them... isn’t around anymore. I am in turmoil, lurching from one disastrous scenario to another with no break between them.
This is only allayed when Luke has been filled in, and he and Charlie step in and hold an intervention. They both tell me that if we are going to do this, if we are going to head to Cornwall, then the new rule is that between now and then, we have to concentrate solely on having as much fun as humanly possible. In Betty’s case, caninely possible.
I agree and promise I will try to switch my mind off, to save the worrying for when it is actually relevant and not let it ruin the journey in between. Some of the time, over the next few days, Iam faking it—but some of the time, the approach genuinely works. At the very least, we visit lots of great places that provide content for the ever-expanding Sausage Dog Diaries.
We take our time getting from Surrey to Cornwall, stretching the journey into four overnight stops and countless trips to some astonishing places. As delaying tactics go, it is a superior example.
We do one more draw out of the hat, and the paper says “James Bond.” I assume it is mine, as I wrote down James Bond as one of the choices, but Charlie thinks it’s his, and Luke the same. Turns out, amusingly, that all three of us wanted to visit something to do with James Bond. Charlie makes a joke about this journey giving us a “license to chill,” and I steal it to use on the blog.
It turns out that Skyfall Lodge—James’s old family home in Scotland—was actually built on a common not far away from Box Hill. Yet again, we are amazed at the sneaky nature of movies, as we wander around the walking trails and try to imagine all the explosions and helicopters and Judi Dench legging it through the night with a flashlight in her dame-like hand.
After that, we meander on our journey, wandering through the South West of England. We visit a stone circle just outside Bristol that is absolutely amazing, and climb to the top of a hill fort called Solsbury, near Bath. When we reach the summit, Charlie plays the Peter Gabriel song “Solsbury Hill” and we all join in. Then we drive down through Wiltshire, where we crawl into a long barrow at a place called West Kennet, wander around Avebury, and visit Salisbury Cathedral.
In Dorset, we climb down the steps at Durdle Door and visit Thomas Hardy’s cottage and hunt for fossils on Charmouth Beach. We recreateThe French Lieutenant’s Womanin Lyme Regis, and drive on into Devon, where we walk part of the Tarka Trail and ride on steam trains through lush green valleys andgo on boat trips. We swim in fast-flowing rivers, and jump from stone bridges into lakes, and hire kayaks, and eat so many cream teas there is probably now a national shortage of scones.
I try my very hardest to keep my fear at bay, to ignore the rising tide of tension that threatens to engulf me with every mile farther west we go—but as we drive across the border into Cornwall itself, I know that I am fighting a losing battle.
The landscape starts to unfold around me, the lush green hills, the villages, the winding coastal roads that lead down to fishing villages and harbor towns, and it feels both hauntingly familiar and startlingly new.
Charlie, fully entwined with all of Luke’s guidebooks, behaves like he is filled with helium. He is almost floating with the wonder of it all, with the ancient chapels and the roadside fruit stalls and the ever-present tang of salt in the sea air. We take him to Godrevy Beach, where he hires a wetsuit and board and takes a surf lesson. We drive down to the Lizard and eat ice cream while perched on the rocks overlooking the Atlantic, the waves crashing into the peninsula like a scene from a Daphne du Maurier novel. We trek across the slipway to visit St. Michael’s Mount, then get the boat back, sitting at the edge of the shoreline as the sun sets, casting the mount and its castle into silhouette. We call in at tiny village pubs, and Luke plays his guitar as we gaze out at the sea, and we spot dolphins and seals and porpoises from rugged clifftops. We eat the freshly baked pasties that were a mainstay of my youth, and walk through fields of yellow and pink wildflowers, and pick our own strawberries, and sleep under myriad twinkling stars.
If it weren’t for the fact that I feel as though I am driving toward my own execution, it would be glorious. I can tell that Luke has picked up on my tension; notice the way he tries to distractme, engages us all in word games and singsongs, reassures me with the occasional brief pat on the hand or shoulder.
“How far away are we?” asks Charlie, as we make our way to the far west coast where I grew up.
Not far away enough, I want to say. Instead, I simply tell him that we are almost there, trying to hide the tremor in my voice, the tremble in my hands. The landmarks are all there now—the crossroads with its weathered wooden sign; the big rock the locals say is cursed; the footpaths that lead through swaying fields of crops down to the coast. We pass the local pub, and the long thin strip of road that plays host to the nearest shop and cafe. I see the street that leads to my old school, the bus stop where I used to get off and join the flow of uniformed humanity toward our day of learning and goofing off. I see the tight corner where Richard crashed his car not long after his driving test, and eventually I see the sign for Foxgloves. The place of my youth, now a foreign land.
It is easy to miss, a hidden turning on the right, and part of me would like to miss it. To play dumb, to pretend I am lost, to claim that they must not live here anymore. One look at Charlie’s enthralled face assassinates that idea. I couldn’t do that to him—but I am also not ready to simply drive along that road again just yet, either physically or emotionally.
“Stop!” I shout to Luke. “Just pull over for a minute!”
He does as he is asked and stops the van. He switches off the engine and turns around, his face concerned.
“Are you all right?” he asks. “Did I miss it?”
“No... it’s just ahead... but I need a moment. I’m not sure this is right, just turning up. I mean, they’re old—I might give them a heart attack or something... I think I should call them first.”
I see Charlie and Luke share glances and know that I probably look and sound desperate. I can feel the flush on my cheeks, and my own heart pounding, and my skin seems hot and prickly all over. I am fooling nobody, not even myself—this break is for my benefit, not my parents’.
“Do you have their number even?” asks Charlie, undoing his seat belt and coming to sit next to me.
“Well, I don’t know. I remember the landline number. Though they might have changed it, or have mobiles, or...”
“Just call it, Mum,” he says gently. “It won’t be as bad as you think. If I’d been gone for eighteen years and then turned up, wouldn’t you be pleased to see me?”
I stare at him and ponder the question. The thought of that ever happening seems ludicrous, but I know how easy it can be—to take too many steps away from each other, to say things that feel final, to make promises you don’t want to keep but feel you must. To break the thread that ties people together. But... yes, he is right. If that awful thing ever did happen, I would be pleased to see him. I nod, and take some deep breaths, and pick up my phone.
I dial the number that I haven’t dialed for so many years, but which is still ingrained in my muscle memory, and I listen to it ring out. I imagine the phone, on its neat little table in the hallway, next to a notepad and pen and my mum’s super-efficient address book. I have no idea what I am going to say.
Please don’t answer, I think, as it rings out.
I am about to get my wish when someone picks up. “Hello, 9627,” says my mum, as she always did—reciting the last four digits of our number, as though to inform the caller of any mistake they might have made, and give them the chance to recant.
