He stares at the car—Nina—and pulls a face. “It’s a bit of a crap car, isn’t it, Mum?”
“Don’t say that, you’ll hurt her feelings!”
I stare at Nina, with her dents and scratches and muddy undercarriage. With her complete lack of cooperation. I feel annoyed now—I mean, what use is Nina if she can’t fulfill her primary function?
“You’re right,” I say, giving one of her tires a kick, “it is a crap car. Come on, let’s go.”
I start to think my luck has changed when we manage to get the bus with a minute to spare. The route that goes the nearest to our house only leaves once an hour, so it feels like a better omen than cheese and onion crisps. I don’t usually believe in things like omens, but it’s been that kind of day. I wouldn’t be surprised if a giant crow flies through my window tonight and drops dead at my feet.
I embarrass Charlie by getting him a child’s ticket, and we snag a couple of seats, settling in for what I know will be a bumpy ride. It takes ages to get out of town, then we go up and down winding country roads that often present many exciting entertainments—small floods, maverick sheep, overgrown hedgerows that block the path, passengers who get on and try to pay their entire fare with small change and bubble gum.
It’s not especially comfortable, especially as every human being on the bus is wet and steaming. It’s like being in a grimy sauna. I use my hand to wipe a patch of window clear, but all I can see is rain.
“So, did anything else happen today?” I ask, keen to distract myself from my own thoughts.
“Kind of. You know Eric?”
“Yes. You’ve been friends with him since year five—of course I know him.”
“That was rhetorical. Anyway, he came out on Snapchat.”
“Oh. But hasn’t Eric always been gay? I mean, didn’t most people already know that? What difference does saying it on social media make?”
Charlie gives me a disgusted look and replies frostily: “Yes, we knew, Mum—but now it’s official. It’s not just something his friends and family know about; it’s something he’s proud of. And I think it’s a pretty brave thing to do.”
“Okay, love,” I say quickly. “I suppose I still think of Eric as the kid who ate all the doughnuts at your tenth birthday party and threw up inside the bouncy castle, so I struggle to engage with his sexuality. Or coming out on Snapchat.”
I am only thirty-six myself, but I often feel the generational gap between me and Charlie’s pals. The way they live a lot of their lives on social media, their obsessions and passions and the fact they have a whole new language. It’s not that I’m right and they’re wrong—I just don’t quite understand it.
“Well, it’s a big deal, Mum. It’s not easy to be different, is it?”
“I don’t know, love. I’m very boring myself. But look, that’s great—I’m all for whatever makes him happy. Should we send him a card or something?”
I’m not quite sure if I’m joking or not—I don’t really know the protocol for Charlie’s era—but he assumes I am.
“People have been oppressed for hundreds of years, Mum, just for being who they are, and it’s important that we all try to change that—you don’t have to make a joke out of everything, you know? Some of us actually give a shit about other people.” With this, he inserts his earbuds with an element of fury that surprises me.
Wow. I’ve somehow managed to alienate my beloved son in about three sentences, without even trying. I know from experience that once the earbuds are in, the arms are crossed, and he is looking in the opposite direction, there is no point in trying to converse with him.
Anyway, I think, closing my eyes and leaning back,maybe he’s right. Maybe I do make a joke out of everything, even when it’s the wrong thing to do—even when there is absolutely nothing funny going on at all. In fact, that’s what I’ve been doing all day. It’s another coping mechanism, and sometimes it even annoys me, never mind the people around me. But Charlie isn’t quite old enough or experienced enough to understand that sometimes, if you don’t laugh, you cry—and if I start crying now, I might never stop.
Charlie blanks me for the whole journey, and I take it. No point arguing with a sulky teen—they have a way of dragging you down to their level anyway. Before long I’d be snapping, “Whatever!” and sticking my tongue out at him. My phone is out of charge, so I amuse myself by making up fictional life stories about my fellow passengers. Absolutely scandalous what some of them get up to, I tell you.
We get off the bus, Charlie still quiet, walking the regulation five paces behind me to show me he’s still at battle stations.
The bus stop is almost a mile from our house even with shortcuts, and the weather is still as delightful as it has beenfor the whole of the day. For weeks and weeks on end. I can’t even remember what sunshine feels like—it’s a vague memory, like a flashback in a film, the way your skin glows and the light lifts your mood. Plus the exotic way your hair actually stays dry all day.
My work shoes aren’t ideal for this kind of trek, some of it down a muddy footpath craggy with tree roots, but I’ve done it enough times to know it passes quicker than you expect as long as you don’t think about it too hard.
I put my head down, into the rain and the howling wind, and tell myself that it will all be okay soon. Before long, we will arrive at our little cottage. It will be cozy and welcoming and safe and dry. We will hang our coats up over the bath, and I will make us beans on toast for dinner, and I will have my glass of wine. I will look up what it means to be pansexual, and I will talk to Charlie about it in an open and curious way that shows that I am, deep down, an empathetic and emotionally evolved human being—not just an old lady in a tatty coat who makes inappropriate jokes all the time.
He is a good lad, and he will accept that, and it will also be true. We will be friends again, and all will be right with the world. I’ll start looking at other jobs, just in case, and we will find a way out of this mess.
It will all be okay once I am home, I know. Once we’re inside the walls of the cottage, our refuge from the weather and the worry and reality.
Except, of course, for one small fact. As we emerge from the end of the footpath and into the field, my sense of relief almost palpable as I visualize kicking off my shoes and unhooking my bra and pouring that wine, I see one very strange thing.
My little cottage, or at least the version of it I left this morning, simply isn’t there anymore.
