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Rock the Motorhome
Since the motorhome residents had slammed their door and shut out the outside world, Harry and Amy had seen nothing more of them, but as they were eating their omelette, sitting cross-legged on the groundsheet inside the tent, they heard the motorhome door open. All the way up the field Mrs. Motorhome complained to her partner about the mud, the rocks, the weather, the slope and then all the way back down again she complained about the toilets, the damp, and the spiders.
‘I mean, how do they expect anyone to get clean in those showers? It’s disgusting. Go and complain!’
‘What do you expect them to do?’ It sounded like Mr. Motorhome had heard all this already. ‘At the last site you didn’t like it because there was loads of children. That’s because they had all the facilities — you know, a clubhouse, playground and all that. At least here there aren’t swarms of kids bombing around on bikes and dicking about in the toilets.’
‘Because nobody would want to go in those toilets. I’m not stopping here another minute!’
‘We’ve got no choice. It’s past six o’clock, we won’t find anywhere else. Just one night, put up with it for one night and then we’ll find somewhere better tomorrow.’
‘What are we going to do all night with no TV?’
‘Go to the pub?’ Mr. Motorhome said with a note of hope in his voice.
‘Did you see the pub? We passed it on the way here, it looked like a dump. It’ll be all people in walking boots and real ale freaks. I’m not going there.’
‘We’ll have to think of something else, then.’ There was a click as they shut the motorhome door behind them.
‘Come on, Harry, time to do some washing up.’ Amy loaded the dirty plates and pans into the bowl and led Harry up the campsite to the barn, trailing a tea-towel behind him. They had to wait for one of the backpackers to finish washing up before they could use the sink, and so by the time they got back down the campsite again, it was about three-quarters-of-an-hour later. Generations of campers had worn paths up and down the camping field to the amenities, weaving their way like sheep-tracks between the rocks which punctured the turf. She and Harry followed a path down the field, Harry leading the way, waving a spatula. He stopped short as they drew closer to the motorhome.
‘What’s that?’ He pointed at it with his spatula. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
The motorhome was rocking from side to side and a distinctive and unmistakeable grunting was coming from inside it. How was she going to explain that to a curious eight-year-old? Did these people not realise their motorhome wasn’t soundproof?
‘I think they must be … cleaning.’ It was the best she could come up with on the spur of the moment.
Harry looked at her speculatively. ‘I think they might be doing sex, Mam.’
‘Sex? How do you … I didn’t think you … what makes you say that, Harry?’ She hurried him past the motorhome in a panic.
‘Darcey-Mae says her mam does sex. It sounded like “uh, uh, uh” …’ he did a remarkably accurate vocal impression with some remarkably inaccurate jazz hands to accompany the sound.
Well, thought Amy, she was seeing Nessa Fenton in a whole new light this week!
‘Do you know what sex is, Harry?’ she asked, tentatively, wondering what other nuggets Darcey-Mae was sharing on the playground.
‘Darcey-Mae says it’s like Zumba,’ he said. ‘But in bed. Zum-bed!’
‘Ah. Yes, that’s what it’ll be then,’ she said, relieved she didn’t have to have that conversation with him right now.
A high-pitched female cry joined the masculine grunting coming from the motorhome. “Ah, ah, ah, ah …’ It went on and on and on, getting louder and louder. There was no escape. Even if they went into the inner tent they would hear it. Surely it would stop soon? She talked as loudly and continuously as she could about the tarn and the mountains until with a final groan and a high-pitched shriek it was over, and the motorhome stopped shaking. Harry looked ill.
‘I don’t think I ever want to do sex. I don’t have to, do I?’ he asked.
Amy tried very hard not to laugh, but she failed.
* * *
The second time the motorhome started to rock, about an hour later, Harry turned to her with a pained expression on his face which reminded her of his father.
‘Oh no, Mam, they’re doing it again. Can you tell them to stop?’
‘No, pet, I can’t do that.’
‘I don’t want to have to listen to that.’
‘I know, why don’t I read you some of the Titty book?’
