Page 65 of Jenny James Is Not a Disaster
“Well, you’ll need to borrow something of mine then, or go shopping, because the BBC informs me that the weather is due to break later today. Rain, rain, and yet more rain.”
She takes her glasses off the top of her head and points to a small tablet on the table next to her. Imagining my mum using an iPad is quite the stretch.
“I’ve been reading your blog,” she announces. “The Sausage Dog Diaries! I have to say I very much enjoyed them. It was strange, I won’t lie, but in a way, I feel as though I know you a bit better now. This version of you, not the one I last saw. You seem to have had a very happy time recently. How is it going, finding your joy?”
She can’t quite keep the tinge of sarcasm out of her voice as she says the last sentence, but that is fair. I have mocked the phrase myself plenty of times, even though I genuinely believe in the truth of it.
“It’s been a lot of fun,” I reply, gazing through the window, knowing that the physical Joy is just around the corner. “But that’s all it was—it was never meant to last. When Luke first offered to take us on his travels with him, we thought it would be for a week, maybe two. I was testing it out—seeing if it was something that would work for me. It’s lasted longer than I expected, and it’s been good for me, good for Charlie... but I think it’s time to draw a line under it now.”
“Oh, I see,” she says, staring at me intently. “And why is that?”
We are on delicate ground here, and I know that my mother is proud, independent, would never want to be seen as someone who needed anybody’s help.
“Well, if it’s okay with you, I wondered if Charlie could stay here? He is loving it, and I think he needs a proper home.”
“And what about you, dear? What do you need?”
“I need a home too,” I say firmly. “As you say, I’m a grown woman. I can’t be traipsing around the country forever. I need to settle down, get a job, get back to real life.”
She nods and gazes beyond my shoulder. I hear my father heading to the kitchen, swearing about “yet another bowl of bloody oatmeal” as he goes.
“I’ve often wondered if real life isn’t a touch overrated, Jenny, but I know what you mean. And, of course, you are more than welcome. This will always be your home, yours and Charlie’s, for as long as you want it. Maybe you could start the Springer Spaniel Diaries instead, once Luke has moved on?”
I smile and nod, and give Frank a stroke.
Once Luke has moved on...such simple words, but such a complicated concept.
I tell my mum I need to have a shower, say good morning to my dad, and make my way upstairs. I go about my business on autopilot, then sit down with my laptop. I manage to finish a few blog posts and send them over to Charlie. I am not feeling especially joyous right now, but I hope they will do the trick. A night in Joy has definitely helped unlock my muse.
I lie down on the bed, spreading out like a giant starfish, and stare at the ceiling. I needed to get away last night. I needed to be out of this house, to have some distance between the people inside it, people I love but who bring such complex emotionswith them as part of the package. I was feeling claustrophobic, despite the size of the building.
Luke understood that. He let me in, made me tea, quietly strummed his guitar while we chatted. We talked of nothing and everything—about the birds he’d seen, about what it was like growing up on a farm, about his own childhood, about our favorite types of ice cream, about music, about dogs. It was gentle, and easy, and kind.
When I started to make murmurs about leaving, he’d said simply: “Why don’t you stay? You seem like you need a rest.”
Part of me wanted to just crawl into his bed with him, to spend the night in his arms. I wasn’t even yearning for anything more than that—I just wanted to be close to him, for us to give each other comfort. We have both been alone for a long time, and I think perhaps he needed that too.
Luckily, he was far more sensible than me, seeing around corners and predicting—correctly—that as we have forsworn any more “moments,” such intimacy would be a mistake. He made up my old bed for me, and shouted good night from his, and I had the best night’s sleep I’ve had since we arrived here, despite my dad’s cocktails.
He was still asleep when I left, so I took Betty out for her morning doings and put her back in with him when I crept away. Now I am here, lying on this big bed in what used to be my room, already missing him. I haven’t discussed it with him, the future—the fact that I will be staying here. The fact that he will be moving on alone yet again. It makes me too sad to imagine, to visualize him on the road with only Betty for company, seeing the sunsets and sunrises and all the beautiful things without anybody to share them with.
I remind myself that he lived like this for years before he met us. That we were always only an unexpected add-on; that hemight have enjoyed having us around for a while, but that he certainly doesn’t need us. I am overestimating my own importance in his life, I suspect—and he will be fine without us. Perhaps we will stay in touch, send emails or old-fashioned postcards, become fond but distant friends. Or perhaps he will simply drive away, with Joy, with Betty, and we will never hear from him again. This has only been a very brief interlude in my life—less than a month. It has been vivid, and memorable, and important—but it was only ever ephemeral.Besides, I think, kicking off my flip-flops,I need to buy new shoes. I need to help my parents. I need to be a grown-up again, for them and for Charlie.
As soon as I think about my son, he magically appears. He makes a cursory knock and then shambles in, still wearing last night’s clothes. I have raised a sloven.
“I was just thinking about you!” I say as he collapses down on the bed next to me. “And you materialized—I think I may have developed supernatural powers...”
“Probably picked them up at all those stone circles,” he says, stretching. He is so long, his limbs are drooping over the edge of the bed, and he yawns so widely, I fear his face might crack.
“I wanted to talk to you anyway,” I say, reaching out to push his curls away from his face. He slaps my hand away, as is only fair.
“Oh yeah? About what? I got the blog posts, by the way. I’ll sort that today. I think Richard might be onto something, you know, with the sponsorship and stuff? Maybe you could make your millions and never have to do another boring job or have a row with insurance people ever again...”
I bite my lip as he says this, upset that he was even aware of my feelings on those issues. I don’t know why—he is eighteen. He is entitled to know that his mother is not in fact superhuman—but I don’t like the fact that my anxieties have bled into his own life.
“Maybe. That’s something else to discuss, I suppose. But I was talking to my mum this morning, and I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I’ve decided we should stay here. I know you’re loving it, being with your grandparents and your cousins. I know you’ve always wanted a bigger family, and now you have it. It’ll be good for us both, a fresh start. Mum’s really happy too, and there’s plenty of room for us here.”
He is uncharacteristically silent, and his normally fidgety boy-man body is entirely still.
