The Things I Should Have Told You Read online

  I have heard people talk about the French countryside being all that and a bag of chips. Well, people are right. Whenever I thought about where we would be camping on this trip, I always pictured an earplug-noisy caravan park. This is beyond my imagination. A rural idyll and the quiet stillness is breathtaking.

  ‘It’s as if we are the only guests staying in the chateau,’ Mae murmurs.

  Then the road forks to the right, veering away from the chateau. I figure that unless Pops has something else up his sleeve, then it’s to the right we must go. Following the road around, I spot someone with a clipboard waving us over.

  ‘Hope he speaks English,’ I say. ‘Evie, we might need you for this!’ My pidgin French won’t get us far.

  ‘I’m not speaking to him,’ Evie states and puts her iPod headphones back on quickly to reiterate her point.

  I bite back my irritation with her and luck is on our side as Henri has excellent English. He directs us to the orchard, which will be our new home for the next couple of days. We can choose whichever unused pitch we desire. This feels like a momentous responsibility and I feel panicked again. I mean, we know nothing about camping and I haven’t got a clue about what makes a good or bad pitch. I try to remember the recommended checklist that I found on a camping website last week.

  ‘How about there?’ Mae points to a spot under trees. ‘In the shade.’

  ‘Those trees are full of birds, look,’ I say. ‘Good chance we’ll wake up in the morning with bird poop everywhere.’

  Mae nods and says, ‘We don’t want poop.’

  ‘Speaking of which, we should park close to the toilets,’ I say.

  ‘I’m not sure I’d like that,’ Mae replies, wrinkling her nose. She doesn’t appreciate my humour.

  ‘Okay, not too close to the toilets either.’

  ‘There, Dad!’ Jamie shouts, pointing to a spot that’s on a slope.

  ‘We need a flat pitch,’ I tell him. Visions of Nomad rolling back in the middle of the night and taking out a whole family in a tent sends shivers down my back.

  Then I spot an area that looks suitable. It’s close to the swimming pool, with the toilet and shower blocks within our eyelines, but with any luck not our noses! I point to it and Mae nods in agreement.

  ‘It’s pretty with all the apple trees behind it,’ Mae says.

  I won’t lie, turning that engine off feels good. While I couldn’t wait to head off on this trip, the whole driving of a large vehicle thing hasn’t been good for my blood pressure. The worry that I’ll clip someone or misjudge the size of the van weighs heavily.

  ‘Can we go explore?’ Jamie asks.

  ‘Don’t go far,’ Mae tells him, as she nods her consent.

  ‘I’m staying here,’ Evie says.

  ‘Hold up there, dude. You’re not going anywhere on your own, Jamie,’ I say. ‘Either Evie goes with you, or you don’t go.’

  ‘Evie, please,’ Jamie begs and pulls at her arm.

  ‘I don’t want to go,’ she snaps at him and swats at his hand.

  ‘Go on with your brother. Don’t be like that,’ I say and I’m rewarded with a scathing look from her.

  ‘Fine!’ she snaps and Jamie runs off chattering away about what they might find on their ‘adventure’.

  Mae’s eyes follow them both as they walk away from Nomad.

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ I say. ‘They’re not babies any more.’

  Mae gives me a look of irritation again. I can see her biting her tongue in an effort not to speak her mind. For a moment I think it would be great to be inside her head, know what she’s thinking. I’ve a funny feeling I wouldn’t be too happy about what I’d find.

  ‘What? Go on, hit me with it, I can take it,’ I try to sound lighthearted.

  She sighs; not a good sign. ‘I’ve no doubt that Jamie will be fine. But Evie is fragile, she’s not been herself for some time. We’ve both acknowledged that she’s hiding something. It was only Pops getting so ill and dying that stopped us from really finding out what the hell is going on. What if she was trying to harm herself? What if it was a cry for help? It’s partly why I’m so worried about this trip. It could be a distraction from what’s really important.’

  So much for my plan to help Evie. ‘Shit, shit shit.’

  Mae shrugs, with a ‘you’ve fucked up’ written all over her face.

  ‘I’m out of my depth here,’ I say.

  Her face softens and she replies, ‘You’re not the only one. I don’t have the answers, I’ve no manual for stroppy teenage daughters. Nobody does. But it’s our job to work our way through it all. All I’m suggesting, is that we both need to try listening a little harder. Watch her a little closer.’

  ‘I just thought she spends so much of her time on her own, I didn’t want her to be cooped up here in Nomad too,’ I say.

  ‘I agree with you, but we should give her a moment to settle in, get her bearings,’ Mae reiterates.

  ‘All I want to do is find a way to get rid of that frown she habitually wears.’

  ‘Me too. I’ve thought of little else but seeing her smile again.’

  ‘Should I go after her?’

  ‘Leave her, now she’s gone. But if she comes back, not a word. Don’t force her to go “mix” with anyone.’

  I nod my agreement and then we sit in silent awkwardness. We’re back to avoiding eye contact again. I spy a sign that has a bottle of beer on the front and my throat dries up at the thought of a cold lager. Sometimes I wish I had no responsibilities and could just head to the pub and get locked. Instead I say, ‘I suppose we should set up.’

  I jump out of Nomad and stretch, Mae close behind me. My earlier excitement at our arrival has gone and it all feels a bit anti-climatic.

  ‘We should have put sun factor on the kids,’ Mae worries, looking up to the sun, which is already toasting our pale Irish skin.

  ‘They’ll be back soon enough. We’ll get it on them then,’ I say. Then, in a fit of bravery, I throw in, ‘You worry too much. Relax.’

  This bravado falters as fast as it arrives and I look away to avoid seeing Mae’s sharp look of annoyance.

  I decide to scope out the other motor homes all scattered around the grounds, to see how they are all set up. Mae falls into step beside me. It’s quiet enough, not too many people out and about, so we are uninterrupted having a nose. Most pitches seem to have a groundsheet laid beside the caravans or campers, with tables and chairs arranged on top. Some have awnings up and others have tents beside their vans, which intrigues us both.

  ‘Maybe it’s the camping equivalent of the dog house,’ I say. ‘Piss off the wife and into the tent you go.’

  ‘Not a bad idea. You better behave yourself, Olly, or into it you’ll go,’ Mae says and then, thank God, she laughs.

  ‘You look your most prettiest when you laugh,’ I say. It appears some of that bravado is still around.

  She doesn’t answer me, though, just looks at me again as if pondering that same silent question. It hangs in the air between us. Then the moment is gone and she changes the subject and points to the groundsheets.

  ‘We need one of those. Do we have one?’

  I shrug and walk back to Nomad’s garage to have a root around. Aled did mention that there were some ‘extras’ that he’d left for us, but I can’t remember if a groundsheet is one amongst them.

  Pulling out our garden folding table and chairs, I’m grateful that I did think to bring them. I can see how useful they will be already. The heat in Nomad is stifling. I also grab our new portable barbecue that Mae bought in Woodies before we left too. And when I rummage towards the back, where the tools are, I find a long thin bag. Bingo – yes! – that, I believe, is a groundsheet. And, yep, right beside it a tent.

  ‘Woof woof!’ I joke, when I throw them at Mae’s feet, who looks at me blankly. ‘The dog house!’

  She rewards my terrible humour with another laugh and the air feels lighter, as tensions ebb away. For now, anyhow.

/>   ‘Imagine the shame had we not brought a groundsheet,’ Mae remarks and I laugh, once we’ve got it all set up. We take a seat for a second to toast ourselves, with an imaginary glass.

  ‘’Twould be a disaster,’ I say. ‘Shunned by the campers, one and all, for breach of the motor-home code.’

  ‘What do we have to do next?’ Mae asks.

  I try to sound informed as I tell her that we have to plug in the electricity and fill the water tanks.

  ‘Don’t forget the satellite dish.’

  ‘Will I pull the awning down too?’

  ‘I think so,’ Mae says. ‘Do you know how to do all that?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say, with more confidence than I feel. As it happens, it is easier than I thought it would be. The connecting of electricity, the thing that had caused me the most panic, was quick and seamless too.

  I’m feeling a bit cocky by the time I head off to fill our water tanks. Mae leaves me to it. At first it all goes rather well. I find the fresh-water taps easy enough. Not a bother to me. King of the hill. I fill the tank and the beat of the splashing water as it hits the plastic drum is oddly relaxing. Once it’s full, I stick the cap on and that’s when the fun begins. The drum is not so easy to manoeuvre when full and I struggle to lift it.

  I decide that maybe it would be best to hoist it up onto my shoulder. Easier said than done. Five minutes later, sweat dripping, muscles aching, the drum is in my arms. But my hands are now damp with sweat and so the drum begins to slip. Fecked if I’m letting it go now, after all the effort it took to lift up in the first place. I grapple with it and somehow manage to keep a hold of it. But in my fight with it, it’s now upside down.

  And that’s when Houston has a problem. The cap loosens under the weight of the water and in cartoon, slapstick fashion, the shagging thing comes off. Net result, an unwarranted shower.

  Peals of laughter alerts me to the fact that I have an audience. Damn it. ‘We’ve all been there!’ a good-natured voice says. The voice belongs to a tanned man in his sixties wearing a bright-yellow t-shirt over khaki shorts. ‘First-timer?’

  As I wipe the water from my face, I nod and say, ‘That obvious?’

  He laughs again and a few minutes later he returns with a two-wheeled trolley. ‘You’ll be needing one of these. Or maybe the next time you could just do what most of us do. Pull up beside the taps to fill up, before you pitch.’

  Why didn’t I think of that! ‘Now I feel stupid,’ I say.

  ‘Ah, sure, if you’ve not done this before, you wouldn’t know the lie of the land. Rookie error.’

  ‘Cheers for this,’ I say to him. ‘I won’t say no to the lend.’

  He helps me load the tank on the trolley and then I fill it again.

  ‘Where you from?’ he asks.

  ‘Wexford. This is our first time camping, you’ll be stunned to hear that I’ve not a clue what I’m doing.’

  Laughing, he says, ‘I remember the first time we camped. I was that nervous I went into reverse instead of drive and hit the flower pots outside our house.’

  I smiled back and said, ‘It was the kerb for me on the way out of our drive.’

  ‘Give it time and before long you will feel like you’ve been doing this all your life. I’m Billy, if you need anything else. You can drop the trolley back to me when you finish with it. The Winnebago over there.’ He points to an impressive beige motor home.

  ‘Nice.’ I nod in its direction. I need to work on my motor-home appreciative lingo.

  He wanders off with a wave and I shout after him, ‘I’m Olly. And thanks. I owe you.’

  ‘What happened to you?’ Mae asks when I arrive back with the water.

  As I relay my tale of woe, she giggles, then reminds me, ‘I’m not doing the water tanks. Ever.’

  She’s been busy while I’ve been gone. There’s now a green-and-pink-checked oilcloth on our camping table. Pretty coloured lanterns are on either side of the table and there are several more hanging off the awning on hooks.

  ‘That looks great!’ She always has this knack of making everything look like it should be gracing a magazine cover.

  ‘I thought we could have a glass of wine later on, with the lanterns lit. It could be pretty,’ she says. She looks almost shy at the suggestion.

  ‘I’d love that.’ I can’t think of anything that sounds more tempting than a glass of pinot noir right now. ‘We used to sit out the back when the kids were small, drinking cheap wine.’

  ‘On those horrible white-plastic chairs,’ Mae replies.

  I take a seat beside Mae and we sit, this time in companionable silence, both thinking of those early days together. I wish we could go back to then.

  ‘Do we have any wine?’ I ask her. ‘I can go to la supermarché.’ I say this in my best French accent. I’m a funny guy when I want to be.

  ‘I have a bottle, but only the one. Seemed a bit silly bringing wine into France,’ Mae tells me.

  ‘True. I’ll pick some up later on,’ I promise.

  I take a look around me and I feel overwhelmed as a sense of achievement hits me. We have travelled from our home in Wexford to this eight-by-eight patch of grass, our temporary home, in less than thirty-six hours. It seems incredible.

  I wish Pops were here. I can picture him sitting in a chair under the shade, reading a paper, his glasses perched at the end of his nose.

  Are you watching, Pops? Is that Wi-Fi switched on over there? Is this how you imagined it, when you were at home planning it all?

  If you’d have said to me a month ago that I’d be here, in this very spot, the words ‘pigs’ and ‘fly’ would have been said. But here we are.

  I hope I don’t let you down, Pops. I hope I can make a difference, find a way to get things back on track with Mae and the kids.

  Before I have a chance to get too maudlin, Jamie bounds up to us, shouting, ‘Can I go swimming with Simon?’ He’s panting and looks a bit red. Time for sun factor pronto.

  ‘Simon?’ Mae asks, looking around.

  ‘He’s my friend,’ Jamie explains to us slowly, as if we are imbeciles.

  D’oh, of course he’s his friend. Don’t ever lose that ability to make friends, Jamie. It will take you a long way in life. He’s a good kid and seems happy. One out of four of us ain’t bad, I suppose!

  ‘The pool is huge, Dad!’ Jamie continues. ‘I’m going to dive into it and do two somersaults before I hit the water. Simon says he can do that.’

  ‘Where’s Evie?’ Mae asks.

  ‘She’s on her way. She’s in a bad mood,’ Jamie says, throwing his eyes up to the heavens.

  ‘Well, why don’t we all check out the pool?’ I say, looking down at myself. ‘I’m wet already anyhow.’

  Another smile from Mae makes me vow to continue my funny-guy routine.

  When we first met, I made it my priority to make her smile on every date. I used to do this thing where I spoke to her in a funny accent when we were out in public. She used to crack up at that. When did I stop doing that? How much of the stuff we loved to do as us have we forgotten about?

  Evie shuffles back a moment later and we persuade her to come with us, but her enthusiasm isn’t overwhelming. I might need more than lame jokes and fake accents with her.

  ‘Come here, kiddo,’ I say and pull her in for a hug, feeling guilty about pushing her earlier. She keeps her arms glued to her side and her body is rigid in my arms. I resist the urge to pull away and keep holding her, kissing her forehead.

  ‘Dad, I’m not a baby any more,’ she says, looking around to make sure nobody is watching us.

  ‘Au contraire, you’ll always be my little girl,’ I say, and stick my tongue out at her, which makes the ghost of a smile appear on her face.

  Twenty minutes later, we are all lying on beach towels on sun loungers around the large pool. Jamie is, as he promised, dive-bombing into the water. He’s not quite mastered the somersaults yet, but I’ve no doubt that by the time we leave he will have. He intro
duces us to Simon, his new bestie, who seems like a good kid.

  I have a book beside me, but I can’t concentrate on the text. Just lying in the warm sun, letting the rays revive my body, is enough for now.

  ‘I could get used to this,’ Mae murmurs, as if reading my mind. I can’t see her eyes, obscured behind huge saucer-like sunglasses that take up half her face. She’s in a black swimming suit that caresses her curves and, taking me by surprise, I feel desire bubbling up inside me. I’ve not felt anything stirring for months.

  Hello, old friend.

  ‘You look like a movie star,’ I whisper to her. My throat feels dry and I reach for some water.

  ‘Would you stop!’ she responds, putting her hand to her hair to straighten it down.

  ‘It’s true,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you,’ she replies, and she looks like she’s about to say something else, but then changes her mind. But she seems happy with my compliment.

  Keep making her laugh. Keep telling her how beautiful she is. I can almost hear Pops’ voice whispering to me. I’ve got this, Pops, promise.

  ‘I’d like to just stay here today,’ she tells me. ‘We should relax and enjoy the sun. Recharge.’

  ‘I think that sounds like perfect.’ The idea of doing nothing appeals to me. The beaches of Normandy can wait. So, for the next couple of hours, we all just lounge by the pool. I even doze off once or twice, a loud snore waking me up with a start. I don’t know what it is about the sun, but it always makes me drowsy.

  Jamie eventually runs over to us and declares he’s starving. ‘We can’t have that,’ I say with a smile. And I’m pretty hungry myself.

  So in a very French-like manner, we buy crusty baguettes from the supermarket. Slices of thick, home-cooked ham, gooey Brie and large, juicy ripe tomatoes, water and a glass of wine complete our veritable picnic feast. The simple fare tastes like a Michelin meal.

  I pick up a chunk of Brie and start to sing the cheese song, making my family giggle, as I hoped it would. ‘Sweet dreams are made of cheese, who am I to diss a Brie? I Cheddar the world and Feta cheese, Everybody’s looking for Stilton.’

  ‘Good one Dad,’ Jamie says.

  ‘Funny guy, your dad,’ Mae says and even though Evie doesn’t say anything, she’s grinning. What I didn’t know then, was that my silly ditty I’d read on a blackboard years before outside a restaurant, would become an anthem for us all. Over the next couple of months, I would lose count of the number of times we all sang it.