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A Half-eaten Pie With Maggots
After a disturbed night Amy slept in until nearly ten o’clock, much later than she ever did at home. The people in the red tent had partied into the early hours, and she’d struggled to get to sleep, but it wasn’t only the noise from the party which had kept her awake. It was her confusion about Matt. She still wasn’t sure what he wanted. His lips had said one thing — that Oliver came first — but his eyes had said another. What would she do in his position? If she had the choice, would she be strong enough to deny what she was beginning to feel, for Harry’s sake? And if she wasn’t strong enough? Did that make her a bad person — worse, a bad parent?
James would certainly think so.
Harry was still sleeping soundly, curled up in his sleeping bag at the other side of the tent. She crawled out and opened the front of the outer tent. Sunshine chased the clouds across the blue sky and the campsite was in and out of their shadows; when the wind wasn’t blowing it was warm, but the breeze had a cold bite. Matt and Oliver had already headed out for the day, leaving the campervan’s space empty, save for a red, tin “campervan parking only” sign next to the awning they used to mark their spot. She was amazed she’d managed to sleep through the sound of the campervan starting up and driving off, but at least she didn’t have to have to face them this morning. It would be nice to have some time for her and Harry, and not to have to worry about what Oliver might be thinking.
Trying to keep the breeze out of the tent, she pulled the door-flap back down, and her movement woke Harry, who turned over in his sleeping bag; two big eyes and tousled hair were all that was visible over the top of his blanket.
‘What’s for breakfast? And what are we doing today?’
‘Cereal and going on the train,’ Amy said.
‘Train?’
‘Yes, the little steam train.’
Only a couple of years ago he would have been bouncing out of his sleeping bag with shouts of joy at the very thought of a steam train. Today he looked thoughtful as he peered out at her.
‘On our own?’
‘Yes. Just you and me.’ She sat on the end of his bed, very carefully, wary of bursting another airbed.
‘Good. I don’t like Oliver any more. I don’t like his dad either.’
‘Why don’t you like Oliver’s dad?’
She waited for Harry to announce it was because he had kissed her, but the answer was typical Harry. ‘Oh. I just don’t. Perhaps because he told Oliver how to spell gnat. He helped him cheat. He’s a poo-head.’
‘Well, I take your point,’ she said, laughing.
‘I’m getting up now.’ He wriggled out of his sleeping bag.
‘I’ll come up to the loos with you, Harry. I need to go, too.’
They climbed the field side-by-side, and both noticed a large gap at the top of the camping field where the big tent had been.
‘Look, the red tent people have gone!’ Harry announced to the campsite.
‘So they have.’
The area where the red tent had been was strewn with rubbish. Cans, food debris, two broken chairs and a ripped coat, stones which appeared to have been pulled down from the wall behind the tent and used to support a disposable barbeque, still with last night’s unwanted sausages. There was also a pile of what looked like vomit, which Amy didn’t want to investigate too thoroughly.
‘What a mess!’ she said.
‘Messy, messy, very very messy,’ Harry chanted loudly as they headed towards the toilets. He was still chanting when they came back again, by which time Peter from the farmhouse had arrived and was surveying the damage.
‘Some people shouldn’t be allowed out,’ he said, as they approached, without looking up. ‘We get all sorts here, but this is a sort I don’t like. More trouble than they’re worth.’
‘We’ll give you a hand to clear up,’ she offered. ‘We’ll help to pick up the rubbish. Harry, would you run down to the tent and get one of those big black bin bags? They’re in the plastic box under the washing-up bowl.’
Harry disappeared towards the tent, still chanting “very, very messy” continuously, with huge amounts of vigour. Hopefully he could apply all that energy to cleaning up too.
‘Not going out with your fella today?’
‘He’s not my fella,’ she said.
‘Looked like that to me. Saw you walking back together yesterday.’ Peter tried to fit the stones back into the wall. ‘Bloody mess they’ve made of this,’ he muttered. ‘Hundreds of years these walls stand, until some little mindless moron comes along and does something like this. Is it them kids of yours?’
