‘I’m OK. Lonely sometimes.’Stop talking! Stop talking! Stop talking!‘My life feels a bit… I don’t know… empty since Louis left. I realised how much space he took in my life, and now he’s just left… a hole.’ The last word comes out in a sob.
‘A hole for a man to fill?’ Hal asks, clearly only hearing what he’s saying as he’s saying it.
I almost laugh. Almost. But my emotions are surging all over the place. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Hal. You have to bring it down to the lowest level, don’t you?’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ he snaps. Opening the door, he steps out onto the courtyard. ‘I’ll sleep outside tonight. Look at the stars or something. I need some space!’ He slams the door and I sit for a moment in a daze of confusion, not quite sure how it has come to this.
Before I can think what to do next though, a house door slams and there’s a cacophony of ferocious barking and what sounds like a tiny yelp – although it’s not clear if that’s human or animal. Princesse charges towards Hal, a ball of energy, teeth and blood lust.
Hal turns with almost superhuman speed and races towards the camper, his hand outstretched, ready to grab the handle and yank open the door to safety. I’m half-tempted to lock it, not to consign Hal to a chompy doom, but simply to avoid a small, bloodthirsty dog hurling herself into the cab.
Before I can react, Hal appears beside me in the van just in time. Princesse slams herself into the door behind him with surprising force, then begins to hurl herself repeatedly at the glass.
‘Star-gazing not quite as tempting as you thought?’ I ask.
‘No,’ he grunts. ‘Think I’ll give it a minute.’
10
HAL
I’m awake by 5a.m. and the sunlight is already forcing its way through Betty’s flimsy curtains and straight onto my face. It’s as if some mischievous prankster is flexing a mirror outside and angling the light directly onto my retinas. I lie there for a moment, wondering why I have a feeling of terrible dread.
Then I remember the farm and the dog and the fact that we are camping out on fairly hostile territory because we’ve consumed too much cider. If I hadn’t realised, my head would soon have let me know – the minute I shift, a pain shoots through my temples and I suppress a groan.
Sarah is still fast asleep, her light brown hair a tangle on the pillow. Her skin is bathed in a pinkish hue created by the floral curtains and the light, and I’m struck by how young she seems, how much her sleeping self resembles the girl who made going to school worthwhile, before it all went wrong.
It’s not as if she isn’t beautiful now, it’s just that when animated you can see the inner workings of her mind on her face; she’s often stressed, sometimes in pain. A lot of what I say seems to annoy her, even though I’m not trying to. But on the occasions I have managed to make her laugh, it’s like cracking anegg and seeing the orange sunshine of the yolk spill through to the outside. She’s lit up and luminous, and all of the care that’s usually written on her expression slips away for a moment.
Making her laugh has been one of my favourite parts of this trip so far. We’ve spent time together of course, over the years. But it’s usually brief drop-offs and pick-ups or family outings where we’re interacting mostly through Louis. When she laughs, or even smiles genuinely, I feel a rush of pleasure that makes me feel seventeen again. What with the pregnancy and the twenty-two years of co-parenting that followed, I forgot how much joy I got from making her happy, even for a moment.
I always thought the heaviness she carried was due to work, or the fact that she tries to make everything perfect in her life – her appearance, her house, everything she does. But I’m starting to wonder whether some of it might be my fault. Until this holiday, I thought I’d done pretty well as a father; now I’m not too sure.
Before I can descend any more into melancholy, two things happen: Princesse, after leaving us in peace for a few hours, has clearly recharged her batteries and begins woofing and howling outside, and Sarah’s eyes snap open, and meet mine.
‘Why the fuck are you staring at me?’ she says.
‘I’m not!’ I lie. ‘Just thinking.’
She looks at me quizzically, but before she can say anything else, Princesse begins once again to hurl herself against the van. I can hear the creak of a heavy wooden door, and a voice begins to shout in French. ‘Shall we head off?’ I suggest.
Moments later the wheels exit the muddy track and return to the tarmac of the Route du Cidre. Sarah’s half-slumped in the passenger seat, still exhausted and needing to sleep, so I decide to return to the campsite and park up to see if we can get any shut-eye before the day starts properly. It will also be a great time to stop for a pee – my bladder, held all night for fear of mycock being savaged in the dark by a rampant Princesse, is fit to burst.
‘Sorry,’ Sarah says softly, her eyes still closed, when we park up twenty minutes later. ‘I think it’s the pills; I just get so tired.’
‘It’s only five; get some more sleep?’ I suggest.
She nods and lets me help her to the bed, one arm wrapped around my shoulders.
I’ve never been sexist, never really wanted to conform to masculine ideals, but it does feel kind of nice to be able to help her properly, set her on the bed and pull up the covers so she can rest. Clearly, I’m no knight in shining armour (our encounter with Princesse showed me exactly how brave I am in a crisis), but I do like the feeling of protectiveness that comes over me in that moment.
I lie back next to her on the bed, on top of the covers, with my hands behind my head, not expecting to sleep. And I think about our time at school, our six months of dating, then that moment when we found out she was pregnant and everything fell apart.
At the time, Sarah getting pregnant felt like the absolute end of the world. You think like that when you’re a kid, don’t you? In black and white terms. Knocked up your girlfriend? Game over, my friend. But it wasn’t, was it? And if we’d been just a few years older, we might have even been excited about it; would have told family and friends and expected hugs and presents.
As it was, telling my parents, then hers, that Louis was well and truly on his way was one of the worst times of my life. My folks were disappointed, although they didn’t say much in front of Sarah. But when she’d gone, Mum told me how careless I must have been and how stupid. Dad grunted and wouldn’t talk about it other than to say he’d give us some money if we needed it (which I presumed was for an abortion rather than nappies).
Her parents were the worst though. Sarah told me I shouldn’t come with her, that she’d face them alone. But I wanted to be there, to hold her hand. ‘We’re in this together,’ I said.
