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One End of the Tent Pole
Amy threw the unidentified pole to the ground. She knew what the tent ought to look like, and it kind of looked like that, as long as she held onto it, but what was this extra pole for? And why was the tent sagging so much? Giving the pole a kick for good measure she sent it clattering into the nettles at the edge of the campsite. Where had Harry gone? The rain was coming down more heavily now; he should come and shelter in the car, try and keep as dry as possible. Perhaps James had a point and she didn’t know one end of a tent pole from the other after all.
She had chosen a perfect, sheltered spot for the tent on the flatter area at the bottom of the field. There were views down the valley, over the lush, green meadows towards the village of Elderthwaite which was a cluster of tiny white buildings in sharp contrast against the massive grey fells. The small red-and-white VW campervan she’d noticed earlier was parked to the right of their pitch and a stone wall to the left afforded them some shelter.
She could do with Harry’s help to hold the tent in place while she hammered in the pegs. The ground was so rocky she’d already bent four of them completely out of shape and only one of the guy ropes was holding it up. If she let go the whole thing would fall down and she would have to start all over again, but if she didn’t go and find Harry who knew what trouble he might have found for himself?
‘Harry? Harry, where are you?’ she yelled, but there was no reply.
She stared at the place where she’d last seen him and, reluctantly, she let go of the tent. It would have to wait. With a clatter of poles, it collapsed to the ground, the material ballooning damply around her.
‘Harry? Where are you?’
She set off down the field towards the beck. He was only eight, so perhaps she shouldn’t have trusted him to play on his own. James wouldn’t have let him go out of sight. If Harry had got into danger, it would be her fault. Perhaps she really was a bad mother, like the P.T.A. parents said. What if he’d wandered off in search of trampolines? Or fallen in the beck? Or got stuck up a tree? Closer to the stream, a heap of sticks and stones which had been used for some game or other told her he’d been there, so where was he now?
‘Harry!’ she yelled again.
‘I’ve got a den!’ said a voice from near her feet, and she looked down. There, on the bank of the stream, under the roots of an old, twisted tree which had been half washed away by the beck, was Harry. There was evidence he was not the first to have sought shelter there; an overwhelming scent of sheep and wisps of wool caught amongst the roots suggested Mr. Thompson’s flock had been there from time to time, and when Harry crawled out …
‘Harry, you’re covered in sheep poo!’
He’d been crawling in it; his hands and knees were filthy, and his hair had obviously been caught up in amongst the muddy roots of the tree, but the smile on his face was so broad she didn’t have the heart to tell him off.
‘I know! It’s really pooey in there!’
‘Then why did you go in there in the first place?’
‘To keep dry. It was raining. You said not to get wet.’
Then, with horror, she saw his feet.
‘Harry! Your new trainers! They’re filthy! I asked you to change out of them before you got muddy.’
‘Couldn’t find my old ones.’
‘Your dad is going to be absolutely furious about all that mud.’
He wouldn’t be furious with Harry, but with her. Everything was her fault, somehow or other, from the break-up of their marriage to Harry’s dirty trainers.
Harry didn’t seem overly concerned about the state of his shoes. ‘It’s not mud, it’s sheep poo. You never said not to get pooey! Can I go in the tent now?’
‘No, I’m … it’s not ready yet. I’m going to need your help!’ She tried to make it sound like fun, but his face fell.
‘Aw. I want to see my bedroom.’
‘You can as soon as it’s ready. Once we’ve got the tent up, we’ll get you into some dry clothes, and out of those new trainers. Come on.’
‘But I don’t want to.’
‘Sometimes we all have to do things we don’t want to.’
‘It’s not fair. I wish we’d never come.’ He trailed after her, through the gateway that separated the campsite from the beck in the field beyond. ‘I wish Dad had come too. He’d’ve put that tent up.’
‘Yes, he probably would. But you wouldn’t have been allowed to play in your den if Dad was here telling you what to do.’
‘S’pose.’ Harry shrugged. Poor Harry, always caught in the middle between them, trying to work out what to do. It didn’t mean James’s rules were right and hers were wrong, only that they were different. How was an eight-year-old meant to decide which of them was right?
‘Mam?’ He caught hold of her hand with one of his less-than-clean ones.
