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‘All of this happened a long, long way away and a long time ago, remember, Oliver, and it’s an old story. Just a story, Oliver?’
Oliver’s lip was quivering. Perhaps she’d been too dramatic, even though she’d toned it right down, but she was used to telling stories to Harry.
‘And what happened to the other lady?’ Harry asked.
‘The other lady?’
‘The rich one. The one he should have married? Did she die too? In a horrible accident with lots of blood? Is her ghost somewhere now?’
‘I don’t know. The story doesn’t say.’ She looked at Oliver ‘But I’m sure she lived happily ever after and married a nice rich man who lived in a big farmhouse of his own.’
‘And the dog? Did the dog die?’
‘No, Harry! The dog lived happily with the man’s parents until she was very old.’
Harry looked disappointed.
‘That’s not a proper ghost story.’
She looked at Oliver’s face and thought it was enough of a ghost story for right now. Luckily, before he had time to complain any more loudly a commotion outside caught their attention. Raised voices and an engine running. Matt opened the sliding door of the campervan, stepped out into the awning and unzipped the door.
‘Where’s that come from?’ Amy gasped. The campsite was up a precipitous Lakeland lane and only tents and small campervans like Matt’s could reach it. According to the rather rudimentary website, bookings weren’t accepted from caravans or large motor homes but there, right in the middle of the campsite, blocking their view up the valley and dwarfing the backpackers’ tents on either side, was the biggest, brightest, whitest motorhome she’d ever seen. At least, it would have been white except for the mud that must have splattered up either side as it drove across the campsite, churning up two muddy tracks behind it.
‘How did they get that up the lane?’ said Matt. Both the boys had gone outside and were standing staring at it — or rather at its occupants, who were loudly arguing with Mrs. Thompson. She had come down to talk to them, an old, waxed jacket keeping her dry and Jen the dog at her heels.
‘That man’s shouting at Mrs. Thompson.’ Harry loudly pointed out the obvious.
‘… I do understand the problem, but you see, when you booked in you told me it was a campervan. I was expecting one like that pretty red one over there, you know, a little VW, not … well, this is more like a motorhome, isn’t it?’
‘I can call it what I like. Your website should’ve said this isn’t a proper caravan park. It’s a grubby little field. Shocking.’ The man who spoke had short hair and dressed in a tracksuit, designed for a much thinner man. His partner, a middle-aged woman, was wearing a low-cut top, designed for a much younger woman, and neither was dressed for a campsite. Something about her commanding voice and her tone of outrage immediately made Amy think of Darcey-Mae’s mother back on the playground at Saddleton Primary, expressing her disgust at Harry’s latest misdemeanour.
‘How did you manage to get it up the lane?’ Mrs. Thompson asked.
‘Stupid driver coming the other way nearly stopped us, but he reversed back into a gateway in the end to let us through. You need to widen it though, knock down some of those stone walls. They make it way too narrow for a decent rig like ours.’
‘Boys, why don’t you go and play?’ Amy didn’t want them to have to listen if things got heated.
‘Come on. Let’s go down to our den,’ said Harry, and Oliver obediently followed him towards the beck.
‘Mrs. Thompson must be seventy if she’s a day. They shouldn’t be talking to her like that,’ Matt muttered.
‘Over eighty, I reckon. She was old when I was a child.’
‘Perhaps I should go and help her.’
‘I’m sure she can handle them,’ Amy said, ‘but let’s make sure she can see us, so she knows we’re here if she has any problems.’
Matt took his hot chocolate and leaned in the doorway of the awning, Amy stood at his shoulder, inside out of the rain, but where she could still hear the conversation.
‘… a camping field, for tents and small campervans,’ said Mrs. Thompson, patiently. ‘I can’t speak for what it says on the website, our Peter does all that and he’s over in Carlisle today, but we don’t take caravans and motorhomes. We don’t usually have a problem. It’s a shame you didn’t call at the house first, then we could’ve sorted it out before you got onto the field and made all this mess. Never mind, you’re here now so we might as well do what we can to make you comfortable. It’s none too flat round here, mind you. Have you got some of those wedge things to level your motorhome?’ Mrs. Thompson’s voice was unfailingly warm; it was as if all the nastiness passed right by her as she smiled comfortably at the two motorhomers. Amy wished she could be like that too, but after living with James for ten years she was acutely aware of how easy it was to disappoint.
‘Of course we’ve got wheel chocks for the motorhome. You wouldn’t believe how many places we’ve been in the Lake District where the pitches aren’t flat. You’d think they’d do something about it. I’m going to complain to the Caravan and Motorhome Society,’ threatened the man.
‘Well, we’re not part of that, I’m afraid,’ Mrs. Thompson said. ‘I think Dixons’, further down the valley, might be with them. They only take five caravans, though, so they’ll be full this time of year. School holidays, you see.’
‘We wanted a hardstanding pitch,’ said the woman, in a harsh voice.
‘We don’t have none of them.’
