In the event, leaving Pengelly is easier than Lucia expected. They’ve all fallen in love with the place, but there’s a definite sense of adventure in the air as they pack up the bus.
Isaac takes the wheel and Peter the front seat as they chug their way out of the village, with Polly chatting to Tommy in the back as Reggie closes tired eyes for a nap. Lucia sighs. The winding, cobbled streets down to the sea and the hotchpotch of cottages and grander houses strung out along The Level leading to the beautiful old church and the green seem to have sneaked right into her soul in the short time they’ve been here.
‘I wish we could stay longer,’ Polly says. ‘It’s gorgeous here and there’s still so much to see, but I can’t wait to see France.’
‘Oh, me too,’ says Tommy, craning his neck to get a last glimpse of the village as they head towards the road that will eventually lead them over Bodmin Moor. ‘We can always come back,’ he adds, hopefully. ‘I think Angelina would like that. She asked Peter and me to stay with her next time, you know.’
Lucia exchanges a rather worried glance with Polly but then thinks on reflection that a few days with Angelina might be a tonic for the two friends. The old lady is full of joyful optimism and she’ll adore the company, so long as they bring copious supplies of gin with them.
Their enjoyment of the next part of the journey is hampered by the fact that the weather turns humid when the sun comes up properly, which will be wonderful when they reach a beach and can cool off in the sea, Isaac comments, but not so great for driving. At least Reggie’s asleep for the first part, and when they stop for a much-needed break, Lucia is more than happy to get behind the wheel.
‘I wish you’d have let me be put on the insurance,’ says Tommy, not for the first time. ‘I could have helped out. I’m not a bad driver, you know.’
‘We’re fine, I’d rather you just enjoyed the scenery and helped to entertain Reggie. I’m going to hand over to Polly or Isaac when we reach Poole though,’ Lucia says. ‘Getting onto the ferry isn’t something I’ve ever tried. We might end up in the water.’
‘I don’t mind having a go,’ says Tommy, eagerly. ‘It won’t matter that I’m not insured just for that bit, will it?’
‘Well, it would definitely be an issue if you crashed into someone else’s car or got wedged between two caravans. Just like I’m afraid I might do, Isaac.’
‘Don’t put yourself down, Mum. You’d be great, but that’s fine. We don’t mind, do we, Poll?’
Polly shakes her head, busy settling Reggie with a snack. ‘Not at all. I’d love to do it,’ she says. ‘Bring it on.’
‘You’re in for a treat, my dear,’ Peter says, leafing through the maps to find the one he needs. ‘Ha, that’s it – the Cherbourg peninsula. If I remember rightly there used to be a few campsites not far from the ferry port if we’ve had enough of being in the van. Either that or we can press on further south. What’s the verdict?’
‘Thank goodness you came with us.’ says Polly, ‘It’s like having our own private travel guide. What with you, the Sat Nav and Tommy’s maps, we can’t go wrong.’
Peter beams at Polly. ‘I can’t help feeling as if I’ve not followed the rules with my choice of venue though,’ he says. ‘There’s no one particular place I want to visit, it’s just the area. I have such good memories of touring around here, even if the war graves and the landing beaches were a grim reminder of bad times.’
‘That’s fine, so long as you’re not going to take a nose-dive into gloom when we get there.’ Tommy’s face is a picture of concern. ‘This is meant to be a joyful trip. Not that I don’t think we should be respectful of the past,’ he adds hastily when he sees Polly frowning at him.
‘No, I won’t, Tommy, and that’s a promise. This is the most fun I’ve had in years. I’m not about to spoil it for us all.’
‘I know you’re not really. We’ve all got the adventuring bug, haven’t we? In different ways …’ Tommy lapses into silence and concentrates on amusing Reggie.
Lucia thinks about the compass, tucked away in her travel bag. The thought of it is comforting. This is unfamiliar territory, even if she has got four minders. All these years of staying close to home have taken their toll on her confidence, and the thought of Eddie’s last holiday still weighs heavily on her mind.
Eddie was always a strange mixture of bravado and fear, which meant there was no saying what he would do in any given situation. Looking back, it’s amazing their parents ever dared to take him anywhere. Even the school visit to Alton Towers, the year before that fateful school holiday, had ended in disaster, with Eddie breaking not only his own wrist but damaging three of his friends. They had to close one of the rides down after that for investigations, but nobody could have expected him to … her mind shies away from the thought. Ed was a law unto himself, as Dad used to say.
Lucia remembers lying in bed as Eddie set off with her parents to board the coach. She’d been clammy and wobbly with the last traces of glandular fever, but she’d known deep down that her mother had thought she was exaggerating her symptoms because she didn’t want to go on the trip and be Eddie’s keeper.
Was it true? Could she have gone? Lucia will never forget the feeling of unutterable weakness that took a long time to shift. If she’d have dosed herself up with paracetamol, she might just have managed to get on the coach, but in her heart Lu knows she’d not have been much good to Eddie feeling so awful.
For the first time, Lu wonders why Des has never pointed all this out to her when she’s agonised over her part in Eddie’s death. He must have been able to see some of the things she’s only just facing, being at something of a distance from the painful memories? An uncomfortable thought crosses her mind. Surely Des didn’t encourage her reluctance to travel for his own ends? That would be really mean, wouldn’t it? But he’s never wanted to go anywhere either, and he hasn’t got the excuse of Lu’s terrible paranoia about accidents. So what exactly is Des afraid of?
The miles trundle by as Lucia mulls over the past, and she pays only vague attention to the discussion that’s going on about their next steps. In the end, the general opinion is that by the time they’ve crossed into France, Polly, Isaac and Lucia will have done enough driving, even if they do keep taking turns.
‘I’ll Google one of the campsites we looked at last night and book ahead,’ says Polly, ‘That one on the coast looked amazing. You can stroll through the dunes and you’re right on the beach. It’s all flat sand, perfect for paddling.’
The ferry crossing is uneventful apart from Reggie being violently sick on Polly’s shoes, but by the time the van rolls off the boat in Cherbourg, he’s perked up again and is burbling happily as they all sing along to the holiday mix that Isaac has surprised them with. It’s full of Isaac’s favourite up-beat summertime tracks. Winding their way along the coast road to the first site, Lucia’s heart feels light, and again she ponders on why she hasn’t made herself take this big step sooner.
When they reach the place Polly’s booked, Tommy starts rummaging in his bag for a phrasebook. ‘What are we going to have for dinner?’ he says excitedly. ‘Can I order? I’m fine if I plan what I’m going to say. It’s just that I don’t always understand the answer if they talk too fast.’
‘Look, can we leave talking about dinner until we’ve found a pitch? I’m hot and tired and I need a beer.’ Isaac pulls up outside the camp office. ‘And who’s best at speaking the language without the aid of a book? I only got as far as asking for croissants and coffee when we did French at school.’
Tommy doesn’t reply to this question. Peter scratches his head. ‘I don’t mind having a try, if you’re stuck,’ he says. ‘I used to be able to make myself understood pretty well. I’m a bit rusty though.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Lu says, plucking up her courage. ‘I need to stretch my legs and at least have a go at communicating.’
Climbing stiffly out of the van, she heads for the wooden shack marked La réception. Inside, the only person she can see is a very old man with a ledger. He’s reaching for a huge bunch of keys. Pointing to a sign that says Closed in several languages, he shrugs.
‘Bonjour,’ says Lucia, her mind emptying itself of any useful French phrases as she pastes on her best smile and tries to sound confident. ‘Erm … vous avez … un … une … anyway vous avez a reservation. For two nights,’ she adds.
The man frowns and points at the sign again. He shakes his head firmly.
‘But look, we’ve been driving for hours, we’ve got a baby who needs to have a nap, we’ve got to go and find either a restaurant or a supermarket to buy food or preferably both,’ Lu gabbles, giving up on her schoolgirl French. ‘We don’t need you to do anything, just send us to a pitch.’
The old man wipes his nose on his sleeve and coughs alarmingly, shaking his thin frame until his eyes water. Beginning to despair, Lucia looks around for a saviour and finds her in the back room, puffing on a cigarette and reading a paperback novel with a very gaudy cover. In the picture, a couple are becoming very friendly up against what looks like a barn. A sheep looks on worriedly.
‘Excusé moi,’ Lu bleats, dredging up the only other couple of words she can remember. ‘Can you help me?’
The young woman sighs heavily, puts her book on the table face downwards and ambles into the outer office, flicking the dog end of her cigarette into a tin bucket on the way.
‘Yeah?’ she says. ‘What seems to be the problem?’
‘Oh, you speak English. Thank goodness. My French is rubbish.’
‘It is,’ the woman nods. ‘I suppose you want a pitch?’
Lu decides there’s no point in taking offence at the attitude on display here. ‘Yes please,’ she says. ‘That’s all I need. We can do the paperwork later if you like. Only there’s a baby …’
‘There’s always a baby. Or a toddler. Or an old mother. I don’t know why you people bother. Why not stay at home and save yourselves the effort?’
‘Oh. You’re not French then.’ Lucia struggles to adjust to this Australian version of what she imagined to be the youth of France.
‘You’ve got to be kidding me. If I was, I’d be having my siesta, like Janis here should be doing. I’m Naomi, by the way.’
She pronounces the old man’s name Yanis, and at the sound of it he looks up and curls his lip at Lucia. She glowers back, completely out of patience. What’s wrong with these two? How hard would it be to give a bit of a welcome to a weary traveller?
‘So hit me with it, you’re miles from Blighty, you’ve a tent to pitch, you’ve not brought any food with you and even worse, you’ve got no beer?’ Naomi easily manages to make the whole venture sound ridiculous and Lucia has a profound longing for home, with her own shady garden and swinging seat.
She nods, suddenly realising how exhausted she is. ‘A tent, an awning and a motorhome. We could do with some shade, if that’s possible, for …’
‘The baby … I get it. Right, follow me. You can put your unit on one of the enclosures near the sea if you like, under the trees. The site shop opens again at three o’clock and the bar’s over there if you need a cold beer later on. We do food after six. It’s basic but it tastes just great. Moules et frites? Steak haché? Any good? I’m the cook so you’ll get a good feed at least. And I’m the cleaner. Oh, and the site manager when old Janis is in a bad mood.’ The woman holds out a hand and Lu shakes it, holding on as if to a lifeline.
‘Any good? Are you kidding? It sounds like heaven. Just show us where to go.’