What I secretly wanted was to discover somewhere further afield – maybe even a new country with a different language – somewhere with different coins and foods and customs.
But how on earth could I make that happen? As I say, as far as Ant was concerned, trips to foreign parts, even to visit my sister – still living in Rome, but now single – were out of the question. He would have liked the idea of me travelling without him even less.
At the beginning of June, Lucy surprised us at the dinner table by asking if we could go to Spain.
‘Spain?’ I laughed. I glanced at Ant, who shrugged in a search me kind of way. ‘Why do you want to go to Spain?’
‘Ben wants us to go,’ she said.
‘What?’ I asked, frowning at my daughter. Though I knew that Ben was her current sweetheart, her statement made no sense to me.
‘He wants us to go to Spain,’ Lucy repeated, as if I was stupid for not understanding.
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ I said, shooting an amused glance at Ant, ‘but you’re not making any sense to me. Where did this idea come from?’
Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘We had to write a story. A holiday story,’ Lucy told me. ‘I said I haven’t got one, cos we’re staying at home. And Ben said we should go to Spain.’
‘Because Ben’s going to Spain?’ I said.
‘Yes!’ Lucy replied.
‘Ah, I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that. We’d have to book flights and find a house to stay in. We don’t even have passp—’
‘No, stupid!’ Lucy said. ‘We can stay in—’
‘Don’t call your mother stupid,’ Ant interjected, raising one finger.
Lucy tutted and rolled her eyes again. My angelic child was starting to become a proper little madam. ‘Ben’s got a house to stay in,’ she said. ‘A big house with lots of rooms.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘But I’m sure Ben’s parents aren’t expecting to share that house with us. It’s like the house we rented in Dorset. That was just for us, remember? So the house they’ve rented is for them. Do you understand, honey?’
‘It was Devon,’ Ant corrected me, ‘not Dorset.’
‘OK, Devon,’ I said. ‘But the point is—’
‘His mum says it’s OK,’ Lucy said with a shrug.
‘You’ve asked his mum about this?’
‘It’s a special gnome house,’ Lucy said, nodding as she warmed to her subject. ‘It’s made out of caves the gnomes used to live in and Ben’s grandad can’t go with them any more and Ben’s sad cos he really likes him even though sometimes he’s a bit strict, and they’ve got loads of rooms for everyone. It’s got a jamuzzi or something, and a swimming pool with water that goes the wrong way so you have to swim and swim but you don’t get anywhere, but Ben’s mum doesn’t like that because she says it feels like being in a bad dream.’
‘Honey, you know that you can’t just go away with strangers,’ Ant said.
‘But Ben’s not a stranger,’ Lucy said.
‘No, but his parents are,’ I explained. ‘I’ve seen his mother maybe once or twice in my whole life. And I’m not sure I’ve ever laid eyes on his father.’ The truth was that I was struggling to picture either of them.
‘Oh, he’s really nice,’ Lucy said. ‘Isn’t Ben’s dad nice?’ she asked, turning to Sarah, who nodded her agreement.
‘He gave me a lollipop,’ Sarah said.
‘Well, that’s as maybe, but we still can’t go on holiday with strangers. Now eat up your tea,’ Ant told her.
Lucy pushed her bottom lip out and picked up her fork. ‘A stranger’s, like, a bad person,’ she said. ‘A stranger is someone you mustn’t get in a car with. But Ben’s not a stranger. He’s my friend.’
Two
Joe
My parents were basically brilliant. I know people are surprised when I say that because so many bad-mouth their mums and dads these days, but it’s true. They were ace.
Actually, I wonder sometimes if all the horror stories you hear are even true – if there isn’t a bit of exaggeration going on, do you know what I mean? Because it does sometimes seem like everyone wants to be a victim these days.
Anyway, no victim status here – no excuses for whatever I’m supposed to be but am not. My childhood was great, so it’s all on me.
My dad, Reg, is retired now, but for most of my childhood he was a plumber. A lot of middle-class people assume that because he was a tradesman he must be a bit thick, but they’re wrong. There are actually plenty of clever plumbers out there, and the majority of them earn more than most teachers. If you’ve ever had the misfortune to call out an emergency plumber at midnight, you’ll know that they don’t come cheap.
Mum always worked, too. When I was little, she was a cashier in one of those little local shops that try to sell everything but never really have what you want, bang in the middle of Whitby. And yes, you’ve guessed it: that’s how the two of them met. If chatting up your sweetheart in front of a selection of plastic buckets might not be everyone’s idea of romance, it certainly worked for Mum and Dad. No one ever doubted how much they loved each other.
Willis Bargains went bust the year that I went to secondary school, put out of business by the arrival of various out-of-town superstores, so Mum and Dad ploughed their savings into a Regency terrace on the seafront, which they’d decided to run as a guest house.
Everyone said it was a mistake, that it couldn’t possibly work, and I suppose those weren’t the best years to be opening a bed and breakfast in Whitby. But Mum – who had a flair for shabby chic long before anyone had thought of calling it that – made a go of it, and with Dad’s DIY skills, plus a little cash from occasional
