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‘Harry, there isn’t a trampoline I’m afraid.’
‘No trampoline? There’s a trampoline at Scarborough. And there’s going to be trampolines at Florida. I’m going to sleep on a trampoline if I want to, in America.’
‘I don’t think you are. Laurie wouldn’t like it.’ She didn’t want to think about Laurie and James; they were on the other side of the Pennines, and that was where she wanted them to stay. ‘This is a different kind of holiday — a wild adventure holiday in the Lake District like when I was a little girl. Imagine you’re Bear Grylls or something.’
She smiled down to Harry, who looked confused. ‘What’s a Bear Grylls?’ he asked.
‘Never mind. Let’s go and find the farmer and then we can pitch the tent.’
‘Oh. Well, if I can’t do trampolines, can I climb trees? There’s a climbing tree over there. Can I go?’
‘Come with me to the farm first. Then, when we’ve put the tent up, we can go and explore and you can climb all the trees you want.’
She held out her hand and he took hold of it. He might try and pretend to be too old for such things, because James told him not to behave like a baby, but still he occasionally slipped into old habits. It was going to be lovely, spending time on her own with Harry; proper quality time. Just what they needed — as long as he didn’t spend the whole week complaining about the lack of trampolines.
They reached the doorway of the farm, a low stone frame around a crooked wooden stable door with another painted slate sign that read inquiry’s, please knock. She knocked once and waited, knocked again and waited some more, and then, eventually, the door creaked open, to reveal a stone-flagged hallway beyond, and …
‘Mrs. Thompson!’
She looked just the same as Amy remembered; tweedy skirt, cream shirt with the sleeves rolled up and sensible shoes, with an old sheepdog at her heels. Her hair was greyer, her face more lined than it had been, but otherwise it was the same, immutable Mrs. Thompson of her childhood holidays.
‘That’s right, dear. Are you for the campsite?’
‘Yes. Amy Harris, I’ve booked a tent pitch until Saturday?’
‘I’ll get the book.’ Mrs. Thompson turned and picked up an old-fashioned ledger from a table beside the door. ‘Harris … Harris …’ She flicked through the pages. ‘Aha. Tent pitch, one adult, one child, no pets. You’ve sent a deposit, so it’s just the balance to pay. Will it be cash or cheque?’
Amy counted out the cash from her purse. ‘I don’t know if you remember, but I came here on holiday for a three or four summers when I was a little girl. My mam and I used to stay in the cottage up the valley beyond the farm. Jen Harris?’
‘Jen Harris? You’re Jen Harris’s lass?’ Mrs Thompson paused as she looked Amy up and down. ‘Well, I never! Of course I remember! Bonny little thing, you were, bright as a button. Now here you are, come back after all this time. You don’t take after your mam, do you, in looks?’
Amy’s mother had been short, fair-skinned and blue-eyed, but Amy was tall with brown eyes, dark skin and curly brown hair, which Harry had inherited.
‘You could say that,’ she said.
Mrs. Thompson seemed to pick up the edge in Amy’s voice and she was clearly embarrassed. ‘No offence, like … I hope you don’t think I meant owt by it … it’s … I never meant … I didn’t mean because you’re … you’re …’
Amy changed the subject. ‘Do you still have that cottage for holidays? The one we used to stay in?’
‘Haven’t let that out for a long time now. Used to be a popular little spot, but tastes change, don’t they? Would’ve cost us too much to bring it up to scratch for what people want today. Too much work for us at our age, and our Peter doesn’t have the time or the inclination. Thought he might want to live in it himself at one point, but he’s happier here with us. We couldn’t manage without him now.’
‘Do you and Mr. Thompson still run the farm?’
‘Oh no. Semi-retired now, our lad Peter’s the farmer for real, but I help out with the campsite and my Reg helps with the farm work, like. Never seems able to rest and put his feet up; happiest when he’s outside, our Reg. Always been the same.’
‘I’m so happy you’re still here.’
‘They make us hardy up here!’ she said with a wheezy laugh and a cough that seemed to belie her words.
‘I used to help you with the chickens, collect the eggs and feed them. I was telling Harry all about it in the car on the way here.’
‘Can I help you with the chickens?’ Harry asked.
‘Please,’ Amy prompted him.
‘Please,’ he said obediently.
‘Nay, lad, I’m sorry. We haven’t had chickens for a fair few years now. Sheep, we’ve still got, you see plenty of them round here, fine flock of Herdwicks, and three of the liveliest sheepdogs in the Lakes.’ She put the ledger back on the table.
