Page 59 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
“On a day like this, yes, probably, as long as you don’t go too far. There are currents, and if the weather is rough, it gets treacherous against the rocks. It’s not the kind of place you mess with, or swim in alone. It looks perfect, but you never quite know what’s going on beneath the surface.”
“Ah,” he says, smiling, “an accidental analogy from the writer of the world-renowned Sausage Dog Diaries.”
“Maybe,” I reply, shrugging. I think about the pretty house up all those steps, and my parents, and all of the love I know is still there between us. But I can’t quite separate it yet from all the pain, all the trauma, all the hurt we have caused each other. I’m going to dive in, but I’m still wary of those riptides.
Chapter 18
Luke moves Joy around to one of the fields at the side of the house, which has the benefit of sea views and sunsets, and the disadvantage of my being able to see her from my bedroom window. He assures me he can live with the stalking risk and promises to give me a wave every night.
He does exactly that for the next five nights, always at eleven, when he usually lets Betty out for her last trip, and it sends me off to sleep with a smile on my face. Sometimes that nighttime wave is all I see of him in the day. While he has stuck around, he has also been out and about in Joy, exploring the local beauty spots, going to places my dad has recommended, and taking Betty and Frank on road trips.
I see him most mornings, setting off, and always feel slightly wistful—part of me wishing I could go with him. I am not a prisoner, and of course I could—but I still feel like I should spend more time at Foxgloves right now. I have been gone for so long, and there is so much to catch up on. My mother and I maintain our truce as well as we can, and I spend a lot of hours with my dad, caring for the alpacas and the hens, walking the country lanes at his much slower pace, being introduced to the new ownersof the farm. It is a strange combination of the familiar and the novel—an ever-shifting balance between what was and what is.
Charlie settles into the household as though he has always been part of it, exploring the cove and the cliffs, going to the pub with my dad, and generally living la vida loca. He is blossoming, this boy of mine—I saw the beginnings of it on our trips with Luke, the way he opened up, the way he spent less time in front of screens and more time in the real world. Now he has even more people to spend time with, new places to discover, and many embarrassing photos of me as a baby to mock me with. I wonder if he is still upset about only just now coming here, whether we have more talking to do before I can fully convey why it has taken so long—but for now, he seems content to accept the good points of his new situation. He has already been accepted with love and ease, in a simple way that is far apart from my relationship with my family as a teenager.
I am currently showing him one of my favorite old haunts—the tiny two-person caravan that has lived hidden in a corner of the back field for as long as I can remember. I’m delighted that it’s still there, a bit weed-riddled, a bit rusty, but still parked up, its towbar propped onto bricks. I am telling Charlie how both Richard and I used to use it as our escape hatch when we were teenagers, and he is very keen to restore it to this particular purpose.
I manage to get the door open, and we climb inside. We are used to a large motorhome, and although the theory of the caravan is the same, the space inside is much more compact. One living area, with a little hob and a sink, two battered old seats, and a bedroom. It smells musty inside, and dust motes fly up from every surface. I laugh when I see there is still an ashtray there, along with an empty can of Diet Coke and a sun-bleached copy ofSugarmagazine.
“Were you a secret smoker, Mum?” Charlie says, feigning horror. He sits down on the sofa, and a small shower of grunge clouds out.
“No, that was my friend Lucy. We used to spend hours in here, and I’m sure you could see her ciggie smoke puffing out of the window for miles...”
“It’s pretty comfy,” he says, patting the couch, “just needs a bit of a cleanup.”
“Yeah, I remember it being comfy... it’s also possibly the place you were conceived...”
He jumps up and wipes his jeans clean, as though he has been contaminated. The look of disgust on his face is hilarious.
“Only kidding, sweetie,” I say, patting him on the cheek and giggling. “That didn’t happen until later. Worth it to see your reaction, though. You do know you weren’t delivered by a stork, don’t you?”
“Of course I know that! I was left under a magical toadstool by a fairy princess...”
Ah yes, I think.That’s exactly how I remember it too.
“Why do you think they don’t use it?” he asks, looking around the room. “Your mum and dad?”
“Not sure, love. They never used it to travel in; I think it was initially my dad’s. A bit like a man cave, you know? But then Richard started hanging out here with his friends, and then I did, and I suppose we just colonized it. Maybe after I left they just didn’t need it anymore...”
It’s also possible, I know, that they simply couldn’t face it once I’d gone. Maybe it became a taboo, a reminder they couldn’t deal with.
Charlie is opening all the little windows, having to give some of them a shove, and letting in some much-needed air. “Do youthink they’d mind if I cleaned it up a bit?” he says, using the edge of his T-shirt to wipe dust off the kitchen surface. “Maybe Ethan and Shannon would like to hang out here as well. We could create a whole new generation of caravan dwellers...”
He has met his cousins twice, and they are already apparently best friends.
“You’d have to ask them,” I say noncommittally. “Though my mum definitely thinks the sun shines out of your bum, so the answer will probably be yes.”
“She’s a woman of impeccable taste,” he replies, grinning. “I will ask. I might even see if I can sleep out here one night... I’m really enjoying it here, Mum, being with them all. But every now and then I just miss the motorhome, you know? Well, actually not just the motorhome, but living in it with you and Luke. It was fun, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah. Loads. But Luke’s still around; you could go and stay there for a night too, I’m sure.”
“I know. I will. But it’s not quite the same now, is it? He does his thing, we do ours. Not moaning, Mum, honest—I’m enjoying it here.”
“It’s okay,” I reply, nodding. “I know what you mean. Maybe we should have a word, tell him we’ve drawn a piece of paper out of a hat, and it says ‘Luke Henderson must spend more time with his friends’ on it?”
“Ha! Yeah. We should. Or at least ‘Luke Henderson should only go out for a morning or an afternoon in Joy, and then come back to Foxgloves and play rugby with Charlie.’ Or maybe cricket. Actually, I’m rubbish at both, but it seems to make Granddad happy, doesn’t it?”
It really does, I think, as we climb back out of the caravan and make our way to the house. My dad can’t do much more thanthrow the various balls these days, but it does seem to give him vast amounts of pleasure to see his grandkids chasing after them.
