A Shelter From the Storm

 

Another blast of wind rocked the caravan and smacked fat, heavy raindrops against the thin windows, open a crack for ventilation. It was Sunday lunchtime, and I was looking through the grey rain at some of the gaily, and now shiny, coloured holiday caravans that punctuated the large field. Beyond the furthest caravan a line of sycamore trees separated the campsite from the shingle beach, which in turn edged the English Channel. The Wessex Coast in May was always a bit of a gamble weather-wise, and I smugly congratulated myself, again, on deciding to rent this two-bed-with-TV-shower-and-cooker permanent caravan, instead of bringing our frame tent and camping. 

 

Behind me Ben and Max were lethargically watching Sunday cartoons on TV. Ben was nearly 6 while Max was 4 and this was our boy’s weekend. It hadn’t originally been planned as a boy’s weekend, but their mother had decided I needed bonding time with my sons. It was it was not lost on me how the requirement for bonding timealways coincided with her old college friends coming into town. A clique of men and women that I was never part of and, was made very clear, that I was not expected to become part of. The group included a guy my wife once dated and had told me he was like a great holiday but not a home. She always seemed distant, less involved in us, after these clique visits.

 

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a small commotion a stone’s throw across the field.  Actually, not so much a field anymore, it had become a collection of water-filled car-track ruts and mini mud lakes. I was watching a fellow holidaymaker, a round man who, as far as I could tell, seemed to be in his late forties. He was wearing a blue baseball cap, an off-white wind cheater and grey slacks but I was most drawn to his feet where he seemed to be wearing black leather brogues. Not exactly sensible footwear for conditions I thought. Anyway, he had clearly had enough and was leaving. I watched him move carefully back and forwards, bent double by the wind and rain. Each time he approached the caravan a new bag would appear in the doorway which he then took to the car. As he did this his voice carried on the wind, he was talking to whoever was still inside the caravan. His words were hard to make out but it was easy to hear how everything he said ended in a whiney descending tone. I wondered how anyone could be cooped up in a caravan with that voice. 

 

Soon the rotund man’s car was packed and a woman emerged from the caravan. As far as I could see she was about the same age and height as the man. She wore a bright white raincoat and an expensive looking headscarf, and heels. As if to defy the weather she carried herself upright. This gave the impression that she was looking down her nose at the rotund man. The more I watched the more I felt it wasn’t just an impression. She carefully picked her way around to the passenger door. She stopped and said something to the man and waited while he scurried round, one hand on the car to steady himself. As he fumbled with the lock, she carefully lifted each heel out of the mud and sneered at the back of his head.  And then they were both inside. The car, a white Ford family car, was pointing away from me but I could see their silhouettes inside. Two heads, baseball cap and headscarf, both staring straight ahead. From where I stood watching, the space between the two of them seemed bigger than the car proportions would logically allow.

 

 The car exhaust puffed smoke and with a small jerky movement the car pulled forward about six feet and then stopped. To be precise the car stopped but the wheels did not. Mud flicked up from behind car but it was going nowhere; I could hear the engine revving uselessly.  The baseball cap silhouette slumped down as the headscarfed silhouette turn to look at it.  The headscarf silhouette became very animated for a while before the driver-side door flew open. 

 

“... Not even three minutes ...” Her screaming voice carried on the wind before the rotund man cut her off with a slam of the car door. Unfortunately, the force needed to slam the door meant those lovely black leather brogues gave up their small pretension of grip on the reality of the slick surface. He slipped almost in slow motion, his feet raised to height of his shocked face and he slapped arse first, into the mud. Dirty water and mud plopped up and over him. He sat stock still for a few seconds looking at his once off-white wind cheater, now splattered with brown drop shaped marks.  Slowly he put his head into his wet dirty hands. 

 

Inside the car, the headscarfed silhouette leant across to his door and gently but firmly pushed down the little button that locked it. 

 

* * *

 

“Dad? Are we going to the club again tonight?” asked a voice, interrupting me from the scene outside. Since we had arrived on Thursday night, we had been having a fine time on the stoney beach during the day and in the little clubhouse by the campsite entrance, in evening. The clubhouse was the boys’ favourite. There was a mobile disco each evening which catered for the children up until about eight thirty and adults after that. The boys had loved dancing and had made a few friends too. 

 

“Probably.” I answered.

“Will Luke and Terry be there again?” Asked Ben

“I think they went home - sorry.” I said. I knew the lads would be disappointed, but I was too. 

 

Luke and Terry were the two new friends that Ben and Max had made on Friday night. Almost exactly the same age as my boys; they chased each other around, did the kids dances and other activities together each evening.  I had passed pleasantries with their mum, not easy over a group of excited children and loud music but managed to find out her name was Sarah and she had come down from London for the weekend. She looked tired, but I probably did too. Her voice had a soft, almost apologetic tone. I had only seen her with the boys, no other adult, so just assumed she was a single mum.  Last night (Saturday), once the kid’s music had ended and more adults were arriving, Ben and Max asked if Luke and Terry could come back to our caravan to watch a Marvel film, their mum agreed especially since our caravan was between the clubhouse and theirs.

 

We walked back from the clubhouse with the boys running in front of us.  I asked if she would like a nightcap (or two) while they watched their film and she said it would be nice. At the caravan (I was glad I had tidied up the mess before we left), I poured some milk for all the boys and handed Sarah a beer. The Marvel DVD was loaded, and Sarah and I left them to it and went and sat on the step of the caravan.

 

The night was getting chilly, so I put my jacket around her shoulders as we talked. She too was staying just a few days and was having her own version of bonding time. She spoke kindly of all those around her, but her eyes grew watery when she explained her husband had said he would need to work this weekend. He was an architect’s assistant, but I got the feeling he hadn’t shown her the real plans he was working on. She explained that once or twice a week for the past few weeks, he’d had to work so late that he’d need to shower as soon as he got home, rather than next day. My heart went out to her. I wondered if she had any ideas why a man may shower after being out late, maybe she did know but was choosing not to acknowledge it. I wanted to hug her but didn’t. I refreshed our drinks and told her about how I was there on my own too and explained about the college clique and the holiday not home guy. The look in her eyes was like, I think, the one I had wanted to give her when she was talking about her husband.  I got us our third beer.  

 

Inside the trailer the movie had ended, and the kids dozed off, one by one. Out on our step Sarah and I found ourselves huddled together. Holding the beer had made my hands cold and when I told her she took them in hers. We stayed like that for a long time both enjoying the warmth of someone who knows too little of you to be disappointed. I’d grabbed a blanket and placed it across our legs. We watched the stars and named the ones we knew and, like that Sting song, picked ones for our families and friends before we finally fell silent. It was after midnight when a little sleepy face appeared behind us and asked to go home. Reluctantly, we moved apart, surprised that we were still holding hands, and stood up. We exchanged a fleeting sibling’s style hug. It felt like it had to be brief, or we might never let go. The two small boys and Sarah then headed off up the path back to their place.

 

Once they’d left and my boys had gone to bed and I wandered outside again but the stars had disappeared, and the step had lost its appeal. By the morning a bitter grey English Channel storm had arrived.

 

I had woken especially early enough to see Sarah and boys, driving past on their way home. She had looked at me with a desperately sad face, slowed to a crawl and mouthed ‘Thank you’ before driving on into the rain. It dawned on me I didn’t have an email address, a cell phone number. In fact, I didn’t even know her last name or which part of London was that home. I had not given her mine either. Maybe our subconscious was making a deliberate decision.  I shivered as I remembered the evening, the temperature around me seemed to have fallen. 

 

***

I was brought back to Sunday lunch time by the sound of the camp site’s tractor arriving to tow out the muddy rotund man’s stuck car. I got up to put the kettle on to make some tea. I passed between the TV and the boys just as a WWE commercial came on.

 

“Dad, can we watch that?” Max asked.

“No. I hate that stuff.” I said

“Why?” The four-year-old asked.

“Because.” I said. I hated WWE or WWF and wasn’t entirely sure why. I know I didn’t like that the wrestlers were probably all on Steroids, I didn’t like that the rules were flexible and I don’t think I liked that the outcomes were fixed

“It’s just pretending. They are play acting.” I said to Max “They’re not even fighting properly. It’s all just made up” 

He scowled but said nothing. I made lunch and we sat with the TV on, half watching half discussing what we should do next. Suddenly the TV announced “exclusive coverage” of Mike Tyson’s savage and brutal fight from the night before. 

 

Because of its Pay-per-view exclusivity Boxing was new to the boys.  Suddenly interested Max looked up, and asked,

“What are they doing?

“It’s called boxing” I explained “The put on those gloves and they are only allowed to punch each other. And only in certain places” 

“Can they pick each other up?” He asked, “Like in WWE?”

“No only punch.”

“In the face?” he said his voice rising at the discovery of something new. I had a feeling I was starting down a slippery slope.

“Yes, in the Face.”

“And they are really fighting? Not pretending.”

“Yes, they’re really fighting.” I confirmed

“Great then we can watch THAT instead of WWE!”

 

Splat! Just for a brief second, I knew exactly what the rotund man sat in the mud probably felt like.

<Enter stunningly witty and clever tagline here>

Bazza