When March arrived, and the summer-holiday adverts began appearing on TV, I started pining for a proper holiday. We hadn’t been abroad since Faro, and having seen the state of Amy’s bank account and not having wanted to be the one to break the economy drive, I’d managed to restrain myself from mentioning holidays all year.
But winter had been cold and miserable, and spring was looking to be more of the same. I was physically exhausted from a series of huge kitchen renovations I’d been working on and a bit down in the dumps about the sense of pre-apocalyptic Brexit misery in the country – there was a feeling I was struggling to shake that the sun might never shine again. So one night, as a blue-sky-filled advert for Costa Cruises flickered on the TV screen, I asked if we were still allowed to have holidays.
‘What do you mean, allowed?’ Amy asked.
‘I just mean, what with the economy drive and everything, can we still have holidays?’
‘It’s not an economy drive,’ Amy said. ‘Why would you say that?’
‘Um, OK, sorry,’ I said. ‘But you know what I mean.’
‘Stopping throwing money away on pointless consumerism isn’t an economy drive,’ Amy said, wiggling her fingers to make visual quotes to surround the final two words.
‘No,’ I said. ‘So, let me rephrase that. Are holidays also considered pointless consumerism? Or are experiences, specifically sunny ones, all right?’
‘They’re all right,’ Amy said. ‘They’re totally all right.’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Um, good.’
‘Actually, I was thinking it would be nice to take your dad somewhere,’ Amy said, surprising me.
‘Dad?’ I repeated.
Amy shrugged. ‘Why not?’
‘Well, for one, he’s not the world’s greatest traveller,’ I said.
‘Last time we saw him, he was telling me all about Thailand,’ Amy reminded me.
I laughed. ‘That was in, like, 1970 or something. It was before he even met Mum.’
‘Ask him,’ Amy said. ‘I bet you he’d say yes.’
‘Really?’ I asked. Perhaps it was my own lack of imagination, but I was struggling to picture Amy on holiday with my dad.
‘He’s not getting any younger, Joe,’ Amy said seriously. ‘And I just think it might be nice for Ben to have to proper memories of spending time with his grandad, you know?’
‘Oh, OK . . .’ I said. ‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Ask him,’ Amy said again.
‘OK, I’ll sound him out,’ I agreed. ‘Are we thinking of anywhere particular?’
‘Oh, just local,’ Amy said. ‘Just Europe: France or Italy or something.’
‘OK, I’ll ask him,’ I told her. ‘If you’re sure.’
Amy booked a weird-looking house in the countryside a few hours north-east of Granada. It was owned by a Spanish friend of Wanda’s and comprised a series of seven rooms carved into the rock. It fulfilled Amy’s criteria of being both affordable and quirky, plus it had the added bonus of being, according to Wanda, ‘incredibly centring’ and a great place for ‘getting in contact with the earth mother’. It was two hours from the coast, which was a bummer, but had both a pool and a jacuzzi, which made up for the lack of beach just enough that I gave in. The weather would be furnace-like every day, which I hoped would be great for my back.
About two months before our departure date, Dad phoned me. It was mid-afternoon on a Wednesday, so I was at work and too busy to talk for long.
He couldn’t come with us, he explained sadly. He’d sprained his ankle.
‘A sprained ankle?’ I repeated, wedging the phone beneath my chin as I continued to screw the cabinet to the wall. ‘It’ll be fine by August, then, won’t it?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ Dad said. ‘It’s quite a bad sprain.’
‘How d’you do that, then?’ I asked.
‘Oh, I slipped on the step or something,’ Dad said.
‘Or something?’ I repeated, frowning and interrupting what I was doing. ‘You haven’t broken it, have you?’
‘No,’ Dad said. ‘No, it’s just a little sprain. Don’t worry.’
‘A little sprain that’s going to stop you coming on holiday in well over two months’ time.’
‘Yes, I’ll just rest up and read,’ Dad said. ‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.’
I exhaled sharply at the realisation I needed to visit him. Because there was something he wasn’t telling me.
As Amy was teaching all weekend, I took Ben with me to see ‘poor Grandad’. And he was limping badly when we arrived. Only, by that I don’t mean that he had an impressive or worrying injury. I mean he was limping badly.
‘Why are you walking like that?’ I asked, squinting at him as we followed him down the hallway to the kitchen.
‘I told you, I’ve—’
‘But you’re walking on the side of your foot,’ I said.
‘Yes, it hurts,’ Dad said.
‘Can I go out back?’ Ben asked, standing on tiptoes and peering out at the garden. ‘Is that big fat cat still here?’
‘Yes, go see if you can find Boris,’ Dad said, opening the door to let him out.
‘So, come on. What’s going on?’ I asked, once Ben had left.
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Dad said.
‘You’re a terrible liar, Dad, and you know it,’ I laughed.
‘Oh,’ Dad said, glancing down at his foot. He sighed deeply. ‘I’m sorry, son,’ he said. ‘But I just don’t think I want to go.’
‘And your foot?’
‘It’s mostly fine.’
‘Mostly fine?’
‘It is fine, in fact,’ Dad said, shrugging sheepishly.
‘So why the change of heart?’ I asked.
‘Oh, it’s too hot for me,’ Dad said. ‘I don’t like those kinds of temperatures, you know I don’t.’
‘The house is cool, apparently,’ I said. ‘It’ll be great. Come on. And there’s a pool, and—’
‘It’s not just that,’ Dad said. ‘I’ve other reasons.’
‘OK . . .’ I said doubtfully. ‘Go on.’
‘I . . .’ He turned to face the sink, looking out of the kitchen window at Ben, who was now sitting on the rusty swing. ‘I’m not sure how you’ll react,’ he added, and I saw his neck change colour as he flushed red.
‘Dad?’ I said, stepping forward and placing one hand on his shoulder. ‘Tell me. Has Amy said something? Have I said—’
‘It’s Emma,’
