‘Well, it’s certainly an idea.’
Carrie stood with her hands on her hips outside the cottage, fighting a battle between laughter and disappointment. Parked at the curb was a vehicle that would have been more at home in Scooby Doo than Packley Village.
‘It’s very… interesting,’ she said, as the sun bounced off the bright orange paintwork. ‘Very… different.’
Rowena let out a giggle.
‘Right. I’m off. I knew you’d be like this. People who don’t understand always are. You either get it or you don’t, and you two don’t,’ said Nelson in disgust.
‘No. No, don’t get upset, sweetie. Not everyone has your discerning eye. It’s gorgeous. Really.’
Carrie stared at the windshield of the van, which was divided into two panes like the windows of a house. It was cool, in a surf-bum kind of way, but it was also tiny. How on earth would she and Rowena fit into that space? Her makeup would fill the storage cupboard on its own, and as for her shoes… Yet Nelson looked bereft, so she tried to look interested.
‘Is that… is that a splitty?’ she asked.
Nelson hesitated, unsure whether to stay or go. ‘Yeah,’ he grunted at last.
‘I wondered what it meant. It’s the windshield, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, but…’ he said, sliding back the door with great reverence, ‘this isn’t just any old splitty. This is a 1967 split-screen VW camper van with, I might add, the original Canterbury Pitt conversion. I had a right job persuading the bloke to let her go and she cost me a fortune. But she was worth it. Dolly is one of the finest vehicles of her type in the whole of the south of England.’
Dolly? Carrie couldn’t believe he’d given the van a name. She tried to ignore the fact that Dolly was worth a fortune.
‘Of course she’s a fine example. In fact, she’s a genuine babe,’ said Rowena, sidling up to Nelson and patting his bottom. Nelson ignored her, clearly far more taken with the charms of Dolly. He caressed her orange paintwork lovingly. Carrie thought he might actually lean forward and kiss her.
‘Why have you called it—sorry, her—Dolly?’
‘After Dolly Parton, of course,’ said Nelson, giving her a look as if she was mad to think there was any other Dolly in the world.
‘Of course.’
‘These old VW campers are very hip,’ cut in Rowena as Carrie stood there, still slightly gobsmacked by the form her adventure was going to take. ‘And the best thing of all is that Nelson’s insured it for us to go abroad.’
‘I must need my head examining,’ he said gloomily.
Carrie poked her head inside. ‘Where abroad?’ she said suspiciously.
‘Oh… Europe, I suppose. I thought we could go through the Channel Tunnel into France, on to Paris, Venice, maybe Rome. We can go anywhere we like, really. Just take off, no cares, no worries. Like Thelma and Louise. Or Cliff Richard in Summer Holiday.’
‘Cliff Richard buggered off in a London bus, not a lovingly restored vintage vehicle,’ said Nelson.
‘Okay. Like Thelma and Louise, then.’
He shook his head. ‘They drove off a cliff.’
‘But we won’t. We’ll have a fabulosa time, and if we’re very lucky we might meet our very own gigolo in the shape of Brad Pitt. I mean, you might meet Brad Pitt, Carrie.’ Rowena started to backpedal, seeing Nelson’s thunderous face. ‘I shall just take the opportunity to see the sights, learn the language, and try out the local cuisine.’
‘I’m not sure this is such a good idea. I don’t know if I can hand Dolly over to novices. This is a vintage vehicle. She needs careful handling.’
‘Nelson, worry not, it—she—will get careful handling. No one handles a vehicle more lovingly than me or Carrie.’
Carrie could see he was totally unconvinced and she didn’t blame him.
‘Can I see inside?’ she asked.
‘Help yourself.’
She climbed in through the side door and was instantly transported back twenty years. When she’d been a little girl, she’d loved going on caravan holidays with her parents. The tiny scale of the fittings had fascinated her: all those hidden cupboards, pull-down beds, pint-sized cookers, and minuscule fridges. She’d loved the way they’d moved on each morning to a different site, sometimes on a cliff by the sea or alongside a stream where she could catch fish with her net. It was all a big adventure to a six-year-old. The problem was that Dolly was a lot pokier than her parents’ caravan and Carrie was about to hit thirty.
‘Be nice about Dolly. Nelson loves her to bits and she is gorgeous, isn’t she?’ said Rowena, joining her inside the van and carrying on with the typical Rowena sales pitch. They sat down opposite each other. The seats matched the curtains: fetching shades of orange and brown, adorned with huge yellow sunflowers.
Carrie ran her hand over the material. ‘The upholstery’s lovely. Very retro kitsch,’ she said loudly enough for Nelson to hear.
‘It’s a work of art. There’s a fridge for beer and a cooker, see,’ said Rowena, lifting up a lid to show a neat gas stove, its chrome burners gleaming. ‘Not that we’ll be doing a lot of haute cuisine. I’m planning to sustain myself entirely on the local wine.’
‘You’d better not be drinking and driving,’ warned Nelson, popping his head round the door.
Rowena rolled her eyes.
‘Do you really think we can get round Europe in this?’ said Carrie doubtfully. ‘Where are the beds?’
‘A double rock-and-roll inside and another double in the roof. But you’ll probably want to sleep out in the awning as it’s summer,’ said Nelson.
‘I know it’s a bit compact.’ Rowena lowered her voice as Nelson lifted up the rear bonnet to check the engine. ‘But I had a terrible job persuading him to let us have it. You won’t believe what I had to do.’
‘Doesn’t he want to come along too?’ said Carrie hastily.
‘With two mad women? God, no. He’s got to work at the garage, and besides, it’s the VW festival season. He’ll be happy as a pig in muck as long as we look after Dolly.’
‘Looking after Dolly is what worries me…’
‘Rubbish. All we have to do is drive the van, park it on a site, and go out on the town. What can possibly go wrong?’
She winked, then they both jumped as the engine spluttered into life. Nelson was sitting in the front seat, revving it for all he was worth. The stench of diesel filled the van.
‘Listen to that,’ he called enthusiastically. ‘It’s like a bloody symphony!’