‘That he is.’
This seems to put him at ease and I’m glad. Because I don’t want to get into all that. How things were back then. The way pregnancy had changed everything about my life and was just an aspect of it for him. Because I’m not sure how much was his fault, how much was mine or even my mother’s fault, and how much I can expect him to understand.
It was only Dad I was able to tell any of this to. And now he’s gone, maybe it’s time to let the past be the past and move forward to the future. My son is getting married; he’s happy. It’sthe final confirmation that he’s fully grown, and I suppose that part of my life is in the past.
Only the past has a habit of biting you in the bum when you least expect it.
‘Nice pizza?’ Hal asks, and I notice he’s hoovered his up and is eyeing mine greedily.
‘Yeah, thanks!’ I stuff another slice into my mouth. And I intend to finish every single bite.
8
HAL
‘Did I mention that they actually call this road La Route du Cidre?’ I say.
‘Only a thousand times.’ Sarah gives me a look. ‘I feel as if you’re a bit too excited about that.’
‘Come on, it’s like driving down a road named, I don’t know, Prosecco Highway.’
She laughs and it feels good to be the cause of it. ‘Beer Alley?’ she suggests.
‘That sounds like somewhere you’d avoid after a night out,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe Bitter Boulevard.’
‘Sounds like somewhere my mum should live.’
Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘OK, then Lager Lane?’
‘OK, OK, I get it. It’s all very exciting.’
This morning hadn’t started so well. We got up early and had a quick walk to see the sand dunes before setting off for our next campsite, close to Lisieux. We both decided against a morning shower, figuring we’d be pretty sweaty after the drive and opting to use the facilities at the next place.
Only the campsite I selected for its rural charm actually turned out to be a repurposed farmer’s field that hasn’t yet beenfully finished. The shower room, while functional, still has the kind of barnyard smell that you don’t necessarily associate with cleanliness. The field that we have been directed to is more mud than grass, and other than a guy with a guitar who sat outside a single-man tent and nodded at us gruffly when we arrived, we seem to be the only guests.
I tried to be upbeat about it all, talking some nonsense about the benefit of country air, but Sarah silenced me with a look. She refused my offer to help her across to the shower block/animal shed and came back with wet hair and a thunderous expression.
My own subsequent visit wasn’t much better. I did quite a good job of scrubbing myself clean, only to stand in what had once been a cowpat on the way back. It was dry, thankfully, but still cracked under my tread and scattered tiny pieces of itself onto my leg.
I offered to move us to another site, but as I’d already paid, Sarah said it’d be fine. Although I already think she might be regretting that decision.
This cider tasting had better be good or I think I might be in trouble.
I spent a while wondering what was different about how Sarah looked this morning and it’s her hair. There was no plug for a hairdryer in the bathroom block and although I suggested she plug her travel dryer into Betty, I was kind of relieved when she shook her head. I haven’t told her that the power supply at the campsite isn’t yet connected, and that we’re going to have to be sparing while we’re at the farm so as not to drain Betty’s battery.
Anyway, the point I’m making is that her hair looks different. But it’s good different. Rather than her usual straight and glossy style, it’s kind of slightly wavy and it suits her. She seems less ‘lawyer-y’ and more like the girl I knew from school. But I know better than to say anything.
‘Is there Wi-Fi at the campsite?’ she asks now, and I swallow.
‘I think so. I’ll have to check.’ Wi-Fi was mentioned on the website I booked through, but then again so were ‘luxury shower facilities’ and an ‘eco-energy source.’ So I’m not holding out a whole lot of hope. I’ve messaged Todd to make sure he picks up any emails that come in just in case I’m unable to connect.
She nods and seems satisfied, which makes me feel a weird mixture of relief and guilt.
We wind down the windows and let some comparatively cool air blow into Betty’s interior. The weather has been amazing so far; just the right temperature, and plenty of sunshine. We’re passing green fields edged with lush hedgerows, tiny stone farmhouses and apple orchards.
We pass a couple of cider producers, but the one I booked is a smaller one slightly farther on. A friend I’d been to uni with recommended it as a really authentic place, and I can’t help but feel excited about seeing where cider is made, and tasting some different varieties.
Finally, we turn down a small muddy track and bump along for around half a mile. A wooden gate comes into view, next to a hand-drawn sign that reads ‘Le Cidre de Papi’. There’s a rudimentary drawing of an apple next to it, daubed in amateurish paint.