Chapter 21

21

Shelley doesn’t know what they can use for rags. Neither does Lena. Pearl has decided that, no matter how desperate things are, no one is mopping up vomit with her ‘intelligent’ hair towel (100 per cent plant based) or her organic muslin double action cleansing cloths.

The three women confer quickly, aware of Frida’s laser glare from beside the car and the whimpering little boy in the back seat. Mr Sampson is still in the driver’s seat, twisting round to try and placate his son. Shelley has already suggested they all come into the house, but Frida snapped that they ‘can’t leave the car in this state. It needs to be drivable tomorrow.’

‘It’ll still drive, won’t it?’ Lena mutters. ‘It’ll just whiff a bit.’

Now Mr Sampson climbs out of the car and rubs at his beard. Dark brown with a flash of white, it’s like a very small badger.

‘Anything’ll do for rags,’ he says apologetically. ‘Anything at all. Sorry to show up like this. I hope we’re not putting you out?—’

‘Not at all,’ Pearl insists. She looks around at her friends, and at Niall. ‘We need to find something,’ she announces.

‘Erm, I have some old towels in my car.’ Niall looks hesitant. ‘For my dog,’ he adds. ‘He wasn’t a good car traveller either. I’ll fetch them.’

‘Thank you,’ Pearl says gratefully. ‘Frida, Niall’s going to—’ But Frida is now busy admonishing her husband.

‘If you’d driven more slowly, instead of taking the turns like that?—’

‘More slowly? I was doing twenty-five miles an hour!’

‘Yes, and look what’s happened. Poor Theo! Honestly, what a start to our weekend away.’

Thoroughly scolded, Mr Sampson seems to shrink into himself in his beige trousers and lobster-hued sweater. But he brightens a little, thanking Niall and Shelley profusely, as towels and buckets of water are miraculously produced.

Although everyone hovers around, willing to assist, Mr Sampson – ‘Call me Roger!’ – dismisses their offers of help. Meanwhile, Frida opens a rear car door and murmurs to her son, before turning abruptly to Pearl. ‘Could you take Theo inside?’

‘Er, yes of course,’ Pearl replies. Clearly, she has singled her out as the one in control here. In a flash of rebellion she wonders how Frida would react to a mishmash of freezer gleanings for dinner tonight.

Frida steps back, as if here to direct operations rather than do anything hands-on, and Pearl peers in at the child. Theo is hunched in a vomit-splattered fleece, jeans and wellies. Somehow, a sizeable amount has also landed in his hair. ‘Oh, you poor boy,’ she murmurs. From the other door, Roger is gamely trying to mop up his son’s emissions, which have also doused the floor and the back of the driver’s seat. Pearl is briefly reminded of the Jackson Pollock paintings at Tate Modern. ‘Theo, would you like to come into the house with me?’ she asks gently.

‘No,’ he mutters.

‘Theo, go inside with this lady. Mummy will be in in a minute,’ Frida announces, and reluctantly, he climbs out of the car.

As he steps carefully onto the uneven ground, Pearl takes in the pitiful sight of him. His face is as pale as milk and his full pink mouth is set in a scowl. She guesses he’s around five or six, and if there wasn’t sick on his dinosaur fleece, she would hug him. ‘Perhaps Mummy could bring in your luggage,’ she suggests, loudly enough for Frida to hear, ‘and then you can get showered off in your bathroom and into some nice clean clothes. Would that feel better?’

Glumly, he stamps onto a frozen puddle, splintering the thin ice. ‘Just take him in please,’ Frida instructs, as if he were a jacket she was dropping off for alternations. Pearl glares at her. So she’d rather stay out here – doing what? Supervising Roger while her son waits indoors with strangers in his pukey clothes? At just gone 3p.m. the light is fading already and Pearl’s face is tight with the cold. The poor child must be freezing.

Pearl reaches down for his hand. She can handle it being a bit sicky. She’s been a single mother since Brandon was ten and has had to mastermind all manner of clean-up operations.

Theo stands rigidly, staring up at her now. ‘Theo?’ she prompts him. He shrinks away, blue eyes round with fear as if she might be about to abduct him.

‘Why are we here?’ he blurts out.

‘For a weekend away, darling, before Christmas,’ his mother replies. ‘So Mummy can have a little rest before the onslaught!’

His bottom lip wobbles, and he flinches as Stan trots towards him. ‘Are you okay with dogs?’ Pearl asks, and he nods.

‘Can I walk him?’ he asks in a small voice.

‘Tomorrow, yes. We can take him out together.’ He looks less than thrilled by this, so she bobs down to his level, trying to put him at ease, trying to be a great B&B host. ‘So, where d’you want to be, Theo? If you don’t want to be here?’

‘Switzerland,’ he mutters.

‘We usually go there for Christmas.’ Roger pops up from scrubbing. ‘To Frida’s parents at Lake Lucerne.’

Shame you couldn’t be there now, Pearl decides.

‘Theo, go inside with the nice lady!’ Roger adds.

Niall has disappeared now, presumably to the sanctuary of his room, and for a moment it looks as if Theo will do as his father asks. But as Shelley and Lena approach, he stiffens again. ‘It’s so cold out here, Theo,’ Shelley starts. ‘Come indoors and we’ll make you a hot chocolate—’ But he scurries to his mother, his face crumpling at the terrifying sight of this bright and cheerful stranger with a blonde ponytail, and he bursts into noisy tears.

‘Theo, just go inside!’ Frida commands as Roger springs up again, brandishing a dripping towel.

‘Could I possibly bother you for some more soapy water?’ he asks.

‘Of c ourse ,’ Shelley assures him. And as the crying Theo troops in beside her, dragging his wellies across the icy ground, she wonders how this might possibly come under the banner of holding the fort.

Five hundred miles south, Shelley’s daughter Martha is rather looking forward to being in charge tonight. At seventeen, she feels like a fully-fledged adult, so it’s incredibly frustrating that she has to live by her mum and dad’s rules.

Well, her mum’s really. Her dad isn’t bothered what she does. And today he’s even more distracted than usual because he’s desperate to go out.

Martha has observed him hopping around all day, being overly jolly. He bought them a KFC for lunch and now he’s saying they can have a McDonald’s for dinner later. Very unlike him. ‘So, you’re going to be okay tonight?’ he keeps asking. ‘Call me, won’t you, if you need me?’

Martha has no intention of calling him, but she wants to be sure of one thing. Otherwise tonight could end up in disaster. So, while her dad is having a shower – he’s been in there for ages already, singing excruciatingly – Martha steps quietly into her parents’ bedroom.

There she sees her dad’s bag sitting on the bed. That embarrassing man-bag in a dull shade of orange that he insists on wearing cross-body style every time he goes out. Why can’t he be like other dads and just stuff his belongings into his pockets? Why, at fifty-whatever-he-is, does he try to be ‘cool’?

As he wails away in the bathroom, Martha quickly opens the bag and peers inside, registering the contents. Immediately, her heart settles. What she’s seeing there is exactly what she’d hoped to find. Boxers, toothbrush. Those pokey tooth-sticks he uses, leaving his blood-tinged split splattered all over the wash basin. Martha already knows for sure that she will never marry a man.

Keen to leave the room before her dad appears in his mortifying dressing gown, she is about to close the bag when something else catches her eye. At the bottom of the bag is a tiny matt black box, with a gold gift tag attached. She lifts out the box and opens it, and her heart seems to turn over when she sees what’s inside.

The terrible singing has stopped now, which means he’ll be out of the shower and drying himself. Martha quickly reads the gift tag, her brain spinning as she tries to make sense of what she is seeing in her dad’s ridiculously loopy handwriting. Then she jams the lid on the box and stuffs it back into the bag, and hurries out of the room.