Precious Time (4 page)

He was immediately back into his stride. ‘Certainly. Have you driven one before? It will feel quite different from what you’ve been used to.’ He cast an eye in the direction of her sports car.

‘I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it.’

‘Is it ours now?’ asked Ned, climbing down the ladder from the bed above the cab while the salesman went to fetch the keys.

‘Would you like it to be ours?’

He slipped into the driver’s seat, grabbed the steering-wheel and brrmmed noisily, trying to reach the pedals.

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ She smiled.

It was while they were driving home, after she had written a cheque for the deposit, that the campervan had been christened.

Clara had been thinking of the ridiculous eight-berth monstrosity and had said scornfully, to no one in particular, ‘Winnebago. What kind of a name is that?’

‘Winnie, Winnie, Bago,’ chanted Ned. ‘Is that what we’re calling our campervan?’ he asked, looking up from the pile of glossy brochures he’d gathered from the salesman’s office.

‘We could shorten it to Winnie,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

He considered her suggestion earnestly, then smiled. ‘Poo,’ he said.

‘Oh dear, can you hang on until we get home?’

A grin extended across his face. ‘Not that. Winnie-the-PooA?.’

Apart from filling Winnie with provisions, clothes, books, toys, games, cassettes, a basic tool kit, and anything else they might need for the next five months, they had also had to pack up other possessions. During their absence, a young professional couple would be renting their house and were moving in on Monday.

Initially Clara hadn’t wanted to let it, but common sense had dictated that she might as well have the money coming in to pay off the mortgage. Then her savings wouldn’t receive such a large dent. It also meant that she would be committed to what she had started.

With no house to come back to until the end of August, she would have to make a go of the trip.

Her friends had been concerned about money. ‘I just don’t

understand how you’ll manage,’ Moira said.

‘I’ve got a PEP that’s just dying to be let loose,’ she had said. ‘I know that would only get you through a long weekend, Moira, but our needs will be quite modest while we’re away. And if the worst comes to the worst we could resort to busking.’

‘I wouldn’t put it past you.’

‘Oh, and since when did I become such a rebel?’

‘You’ve always been a rebel, Clarabelle,’ Guy had said. ‘You’ve never been fully in step with the rest of us.’

Though Clara knew that there was an element of truth in what he had said, she was hurt to hear it voiced so openly. She and Ned had not yet travelled a mile, but already a gap was opening between her and the gang. ‘You mean I’m different from you lot because I’m not married and I don’t trade in my house every other year for something bigger and better?’

‘Now, don’t get nasty with Guy,’ Moira had said. ‘It’s not his fault he still hasn’t forgiven you for spilling the beans about Margaret Thatcher not being the Tooth Fairy.’

Suddenly everyone had an opinion about her.

David said. ‘You know jolly well that you’re the resourceful one of us. For goodness’ sake, you’re the only one sitting round this table who knows what to do with a power drill. When was the last time you had to have a “little man” in? Eh?’

‘Nothing ever fazes you, Clara,’ Louise put in. ‘While we’ve become childishly self-indulgent as we’ve grown older, you’ve turned into a sensible adult.’

‘That sounds worryingly like a criticism to me,’ Clara said defensively.

They ignored her and carried on, warming to their theme. ‘You’re a natural facilitator,’ Guy said. ‘A doer who has to do things her way.’

‘Are you saying I’m bossy?’

‘Well, you do like to be in charge, don’t you?’

‘Not always!’

‘Face it, Clara,’ David said. ‘You put us all to shame. Just look at what you’ve achieved single-handedly. You’ve carved out a great career for yourself, you have—’

‘A great career I’m wilfully throwing away,’ she chipped in, wanting to redress the balance of this cringe-making conversation.

He had waved her interruption aside. ‘And you have a fantastic son, who even you would admit is your crowning glory.’

‘Enough!’ she had cried.

Clara was still watching the antics of her friends outside when Louise came and joined her at the window. ‘Just look at them!

Anyone would think you were getting married.’

Decorated with party streamers and shaving foam, Winnie indeed looked like the archetypal honeymoon getaway vehicle.

‘You know, it’s not too late to change your mind about this harebrained caper,’ Louise said.

Without turning her head, Clara said, ‘And why would I want to do that?’

‘Oh, you know, now that it’s the day you’re finally setting off, it might be dawning on you - the extent of your madness and the terrible mistake you’re making. Only you’re too proud to admit you might been a little hasty.’

Now Clara did turn and look at her friend. ‘And you’re too proud to admit that you’re envious of what I’m doing.’

‘Me? Jealous of being cooped up in a box on wheels for five months with a chemical loo? You must be joking!’

‘Come on, Louise. Admit it! Aren’t you just a teensy-weensy bit envious that I’m escaping, taking time out so that I can enjoy each day as it comes?’

‘No, I’m not. I’m more concerned with living in the real world, not this frothy concoction you’ve invented for yourself.’

‘It feels real enough to me.’

‘Mm … let’s see how it feels in a week’s time when you’re bored of your own company and Ned says he’s homesick.’

Clara looked across Louise and David’s sitting room to where Ned was on the sofa with Moira. A momentary pang of uncertainty made her wonder if she wasn’t being entirely honest with herself. Who did she think would benefit most from this trip? Herself or Ned?

Both of them, she told herself firmly. She needed a break from work and to be with Ned. ‘Boredom and homesickness won’t be an issue,’ she said. ‘What we’ll experience will be just as real and valid as anything that’s going on round here.’

‘But it will only be as real as a holiday, which, when it comes to an end, will bring you back to where you started.’

‘Maybe it won’t. Maybe I’ll find my personal Utopia out on the road and never come home.’

‘And you can take this as a first official warning. If you stop washing your hair, pierce yourself just once and turn into a New Age hippie, I’ll publicly disown you.’

Clara smiled. ‘Is that a promise?’

‘Oh, come here, and give me a hug. I’m going to miss you. You will write, won’t you? I’ll need the occasional phone call, too, to keep me going.’

Clara hugged her back. ‘I’ll miss you too. And of course I’ll keep in touch. You don’t think I’d pass up the opportunity to brag about what a wonderful time I’m having, do you? Rubbing your snooty nose in my happiness will give me the greatest pleasure.’

They drew apart. ‘And don’t you dare quote me,’ Louise said, ‘but, yes, part of me is jealous of what you’re doing. Who wouldn’t be?’

Clara embraced her again. ‘And that happy thought will be with me every time I clean out the Chemi-loo!’

A bang on the window made them both jump. Guy and David’s

open-mouthed faces were pressed against the glass; it wasn’t a pretty sight.

‘And there’s another happy memory for you take with you,’

laughed Louise. ‘A matching pair of gargoyles!’

At last they were ready to go.

‘Come on, you intrepid explorers,’ David said, lifting Ned down from his shoulders, ‘that’s enough of the goodbyes. It’s time you were on your way.’

‘Glad to know you’re eager for us to be gone,’ said Clara. She settled Ned into the front passenger seat.

‘That’s because the sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back, sweetie-pie.’

‘I wouldn’t count on it.’

‘You’re all talk, Clarabelle. A hundred quid says you’ll be crawling back to us within the month and applying for your old job.’

She held out her hand to Guy. ‘Two hundred says I won’t.’

He grasped it firmly. ‘Done!’

Clara hugged everyone all over again and received their unhelpful words of advice with good grace. No, she wouldn’t talk to strangers.

No, she wouldn’t hold the traffic up too much. And yes, she would remember to respect the countryside.

Louise moved in to have the last word. ‘And don’t do anything stupid while you’re away.’

‘Such as?’

‘Such as taking any unnecessary risks. We want you to come back in one piece. Okay?’

‘This may come as a shock to you, Louise, but that’s something I’m keen to do myself.’

An hour into the journey and with Walton-on-Whinge - as she and the gang referred to Walton-on-Wineham where they all lived - well behind her, Ned had fallen asleep: the combination of excitement and anticipation had caught up with him. She turned off his story tape, and now that she was used to driving Winnie and had more or less mastered the vagaries of the gear-lever - roadworks and stop start traffic on the M25 had seen to that - she relaxed a little and thought how wonderfully free she felt chugging along in the inside lane of the M40 with High Wycombe soon to be ticked off on her mental route-planner. She loved the idea of being able to stop at a moment’s notice, park up wherever and feel instantly at home. It was this that had appealed to her when the idea had first occurred to her to take Ned travelling. A campervan would provide a home-from home environment that would give them a comforting sense of self sufficiency. And certainly, right now, with Ned at her side, she felt as if she had everything she would ever want in the world.

A car overtook her and the driver gave her a wide smile. She wondered why. But then she remembered what Guy and David had done to the van - most of the streamers had blown away, but the balloons were still tied to the wing mirrors and door handles.

She switched on the radio. A song came on that she recognised - it was Nanci Griffith singing ‘Waiting for Love’ - and it tugged painfully at her heart. She had first heard it when she was living in America, and it would be for ever synonymous with that period in her life.

She had only recently arrived there, single and carefree, looking forward to the challenges of a year-long secondment at Phoenix’s headquarters in Wilmington. Determined to work hard and further her career, she had wanted to make the most of the opportunity.

But it hadn’t been quite the career move she had thought it would be. She had returned home before the end of her secondment with a bruised heart and a pregnancy to explain to her friends and family.

Gabriel was up earlier than usual. Last night when he had drawn the curtains the track had fallen down. Dust and bits of plasterwork had showered over him and something had got into his eye. He had tried bathing it with an old eye-bath he had found in the medicine cupboard, but it hadn’t helped. Now, after a sleepless night, his eye hurt like hell and every time he blinked it felt as if the lid was coated with sandpaper.

Before going downstairs to make himself some breakfast he went into the bathroom and had another rummage in the cabinet, hunting through the shelves of old pill bottles and pots of gunk Val had sworn by. Right at the back, on the top shelf, he found what he was looking for: an ancient eye patch. The elastic had perished but he tied a knot in it, and it held firmly enough around his head. His hands were so annoyingly stiff and clumsy that took him a few minutes to achieve this. He closed the cabinet door and took a long, hard look at himself in the dirty, black-spotted mirror.

He was presented with an unshaven, grey-haired old man wearing a black eye-patch.

He smoothed down his thick uncombed hair, which was sticking up all over his scalp, then he turned his head, and decided he looked no better sideways on. The long straight nose Anastasia had described as proud and regal had turned into something that didn’t fit on his face any more; it looked too big, as though he had borrowed it from an older brother in the hope that he might grow into it. His cheeks had lost their firmness and sagged under the weight of so many lines. His mouth had withered into a rigid downward curve. Thick drooping earlobes hung at either side of his face and abundant bristly tufts sprouted from them. Dear God, when had he become such an ugly brute?

He walked the creaking length of the balustraded landing,

avoiding the rucks in the threadbare runner, and paused, as he did every morning, to look down on the garden. The sun was still low in the eastern sky, but a pale light shone on the sloping lawn, planted sporadically with daffodils. It stretched down to a thick bank of rhododendrons that were yet to burst into flower, and beyond was Hollow Edge Woods, a copse where generations of foxes and

badgers had lived. Way off in the distance, the swell of sheep-grazed hills rose up to the morning sky. He rested his hands on the stone sill and thought that Byron had got it right when he had compared Derbyshire with Greece and Switzerland, saying it was just as noble.

It had been love at first sight for Anastasia when she had seen Mermaid House. She had been an incurable romantic who acted on impulse and was inventively quirky, hence their children’s bizarre names. But she had had her work cut out in convincing him to buy the house - he was so conventional and analytical. It cost much more than they could afford, and was miles from where Liberty Engineering’s factory was situated, but eventually he had given in to her. He could still see her bright eyes flashing with delight as she whirled him round the room when he agreed to put in an offer.

It was only when they moved in that they appreciated the state of the place. It dated back to the mid-nineteenth century, and it was a wreck: dry rot, wet rot, any rot you cared to think of, Mermaid House had it in spades. Busy with work, he had left Anastasia to deal with it - it was her baby, after all. She threw herself into its restoration, determined to see the job thoroughly well done - and their bank balance just as thoroughly depleted. He had never regretted it, though. To see her happy was enough. And then Caspar and Damson had arrived. The upheaval in their lives was colossal, but Anastasia took the twins in her stride. She never complained of being tired, when night after night she sat in the nursery in the rocking-chair with one or other of the blighters on her shoulder. She never minded how little they slept, or how mischievous they were once they began to explore their surroundings, pulling themselves up on to their chubby legs and ransacking cupboards, drawers, shelves, constantly searching for something new to play with - and break.