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‘I’d rather go and see if Oliver wants to play Goat Gunge. Can I?’
‘As long as you say sorry about the sheep poo properly first, and you mean it, you can go and ask. But don’t be surprised if Oliver’s dad says no, okay? And only for half-an-hour.’
That would hopefully be enough time for Mr. and Mrs. Motorhome to finish what they’d started.
He was struggling into his shoes.
‘Mam, did you and Dad have to do that?’ He nodded in the direction of the motorhome.
‘Go on holiday in a motorhome? No,’ she said, deliberately misunderstanding his question.
‘No, silly. Do sex!’
‘Oh, erm … no, we didn’t have to do that,’ she said. Strictly speaking no-one had made them, had they?
‘What a relief.’ He looked heavenwards in another perfect imitation of his dad.
She followed him over to the campervan. The light shone out from inside where she could see Matt sitting with a cup of tea, but no sign of Oliver. Where on earth was he? Harry knocked on the window and Matt turned, coming over to open the sliding door.
‘I’m sorry to bother you but Harry wanted to say something to Oliver.’
‘Okay — I see. Why don’t you climb up? He’s up in the pop-top.’
‘The what?’ Amy asked.
‘The pop-top? It’s like a kind of bunk bed in a tent, up on the roof of the campervan. Oliver sleeps up there. Climb up onto the cupboard, then, Harry. That’s it, do you need a lift up?’ But Harry had already disappeared into the pop-top where Amy was pleased to hear him saying sorry properly.
‘I didn’t like it when you pushed me,’ she heard Oliver respond.
‘I know, but I didn’t think you’d fall over so easy. Do you want to play Goat Gunge?’
‘Suppose. Dad, can you give us the game? It’s been charging for hours.’
Matt passed it to Amy who passed it to the boys up in the roof, lying on their tummies on Oliver’s white quilt. It could be cosy up there in the little cabin-like bunkbed, but the pristine white bedding with the grey canvas sides of the pop-top made it feel like something out of a science fiction film. Not to mention the impracticality of white bedding for an eight-year-old boy. That was optimistic, Harry would have covered it in mud within about five minutes.
‘Thanks,’ said Oliver, politely as he took the game from her, and the two were instantly heads down over the game, the green light from the console highlighting their faces and making it look even more space-age up there. A tinny metallic bleating sound, interspersed by splatting, began drowning out all the less desirable sounds from outside.
‘Is everything okay? Or did Harry really want to apologise to Oliver?’ Matt asked.
‘Ah. Harry really wanted to play Goat Gunge, and I really, really wanted him not to hear what the couple in the motorhome are up to right now. You can hear every grunt from the tent.’
‘You mean they’re …?’
‘Oh yes. Very loudly. For the second time tonight. Harry’s appalled, as only an eight-year-old could be.’
Matt put a finger to his lips and slid open the campervan door again. Immediately the noise was audible, the creaking of the motorhome chassis and the impassioned squeals of Mrs. Motorhome.
‘So they are! You and Harry can stop in here until it’s over. I’ve got some cans of beer in the fridge. Would you like one?’
‘You’ve got a fridge in here?’
‘Only a tiny one.’ He opened what she’d thought was a cupboard door, below the gas hob on the top of the kitchen unit, to reveal a small but perfectly formed fridge, with four cans of beer in it.
‘I’d love one,’ she said with a smile.
He passed one to her and she sat down beside him on the bench. It was weird knowing the boys were right above their heads, playing Goat Gunge, yet it felt as if they were alone. If they looked straight ahead they had a fantastic view of the rocking motorhome in front of them, but out of the side windows, above the roof of her tent, they could see the sheep field in the growing dusk — a more attractive sight than the motorhome.
‘I don’t think we want to be looking at that,’ he said, almost as if he could read her mind, and pulled the white curtains across the windscreen.
