Page 3 of Road Trip to the Riviera
A car beeps its horn, and I lift my head slightly, banging it on something rusty.
The problem with living in a tiny terrace without a front drive is that I’m forced to lie on my back in the road when checking Betty out before a trip. The street is a jumble of badly parked cars along its entire length, and I’m pretty sure one day someone’s going to simply bump their car across my legs to squeeze into a space.
I realise that it’s stupid that I even live here when, by rights, I could afford a place four times the size. But while that might be a little more luxurious, I’m not sure what I’d do with all the space. And if I’m honest, buying something like that just for myself would feel a bit ridiculous.
In Betty’s defence, she doesn’t break down often, nor does she always elicit insults from strangers. Lots of people love her just as much as I do. Some stop and tell me stories about campers they’ve owned, or ones they wish they’d bought, and I swap their anecdotes with mine. And I have a lot. Betty and I go back twenty years, and I’ve replaced and de-rusted so much of her that she’s a bit like the proverbial broom. If you replace the handle and the head, is it still the same one? Is Betty a camper from the 1970s, or something newer I’ve kind of built myself from scratch?
It’s warm, and being underneath Betty makes me feel uncomfortable and sweaty. I roll out on the tiny skateboard-like contraption I fashioned last year to ease my back and straighten up. ‘Looking good, Betty,’ I say, giving her an affectionate pat. ‘Reckon we’re ready for the trip.’
It’s taken two days for me to do the necessary repairs to get her road-worthy. I’ve prised off and replaced rubber window trims, fixed a rust hole that was forming in the roof and changed the oil – something I usually get done in a garage, but they’re booked up this time of year so had a go at it myself. I quite like getting my hands dirty – don’t get a chance to at work really, seeing as most things I do involve codes and bugs and answering emails from clients. Getting a bit oily and grubby makes me feel like a man. An old man, sure. But a man at least.
Something inside me sinks a little when I stand there, hand on Betty’s front panel and notice my reflection in her now shiny windscreen. I thought I’d be heading to Dover by now, but if I’m honest, I’ve taken my time – partly because the whole thingseems a bit off. I love Summer, Louis’s fiancée. When they got engaged last Christmas, I was overjoyed.
But that was when they’d said they were going to wait a couple of years before tying the knot. Then they’d finished their courses at uni and had gone to stay with Sarah’s mum, Vivian, in France. And suddenly – a few weeks ago – Louis called me and told me they were moving the wedding forward, and they were doing it at Vivian’s house this summer.
So now it’s real. And I have to admit, the prospect of my son getting married feels a bit… terrifying. Some guys my age are still playing the field, not even thinking about marriage and kids themselves yet. And my son is getting married. What’s next? Grandkids? I mean, that would be cool – I’d be the youngest granddad at the park for sure – but it’s also… if I’m honest, it’s bloody terrifying. Middle age beckoning is bad enough. But this is the stuff ofoldage.
I shake my head and force a smile. I’ve been pretty maudlin recently. It all started when I realised that I’d be forty in a few weeks’ time. Then when I noticed a bit of thinning on my scalp, I’ll admit I nearly had a full-scale panic attack.
Turning away from the brutal reflection in Betty’s newly polished windscreen, I resume my usual state of denial, reminding myself that I’m not a typical age for becoming a father-in-law, because Sarah and I were definitelynotthe typical age to become parents in the first place. I resolve to call the lads (can you still call them ‘lads’ when some of them are forty?) when I get back and go for a bevvy to put the world to rights and re-embrace my inner youngster.
Back in the house, my inbox has filled up again and I sink into my work chair. Most of the time, clients get in touch with glitches that are pretty simple to fix; and so Todd, my assistant, will pick these up for me. I scroll down, checking the titles, andthere’s one from David Wallace again, a big tech guy who wants to buy my software and take over my company. I delete.
I’ve found over the years that when you build something that’s profitable, people want to sweep in and buy it. And I can’t say it hasn’t been tempting at times. But my business is mine, and I guess I’d be lost without it. Besides, Todd’s a good lad – he didn’t do too well at school, but I met his dad at a networking thing, and he persuaded me to give him a trial. He’s really taken to the work and has been great to train. I suppose I kind of hope I can provide a bit of stability for the kid.
I bring up my itinerary for the next ten days. I’ve tried to include a little bit of everything, plus make it manageable for Betty. First night French-side at Camping Les Trois Sablières in Calais, where I’m hoping to take a bit of a ramble around Marquenterre bird park. Not that I’m into bird-spotting per se, but the idea of seeing 1,000 different species and all that marshland really appeals to me. (If I’m honest, I’m a bit worried about how much I’m looking forward to the ‘looking at birds’ aspect. Is ornithophilia a thing that lies dormant in a person for the first four decades of their life, only to burst into being when they approach forty?)
The rest of the trip includes cider tasting, a bit of cycling (I make a note to put my bike in the back), visiting a chateau in Chaumont, a lake swim if I can get over my fear of putting my feet down on the muddy sludge under the water, a bit of paddleboarding and then, if I get time, maybe even a mountain walk near the Alps. It’ll take twelve days in total, but when you work remotely, the world is your oyster, so they say. Or, as we’re going French, maybe it’s my mussel. Orescargot.
I tried snails once, and they’re not too bad once you get over the kind of gross idea of what they are. Kind of mushroomy tasting. Not something I’m keen to repeat, but one of those travel rites of passage. And I suppose that’s the point. I don’ttravel as much as I thought I would when I first bought Betty, so this meandering route is all about saying yes to those small but new experiences – embracing the opportunity to travel properly.
Sarah, of course, is flying straight there. Spending one night. Then back to the office. She sounded quite defensive when I talked to her about it on the phone. ‘Not that I wouldn’t like to hang around a bit more,’ she told me. ‘Just it’s very busy at work.’
I print out the itinerary in case I’m thwarted by patchy Wi-Fi en route, and go to the kitchen to make coffee. The kettle’s just coming to the boil when Sarah’s name flashes up on my phone.
‘Hey,’ I say, cradling the handset between my cheek and shoulder. ‘Talk of the devil! I mean, think of… I was just thinking about you. Not that you’re a devil… I mean, well. Hi.’ My face feels hot.
‘Hello.’ She sounds kind of off, and I quickly scan my brain for things I might have done or not done. I come up with a blank.
‘You OK?’ I presume this is just a quick precursor to my trip. She knows I might miss her calls when I’m on the road and wants to square things about the wedding with me before we see each other at her mum’s.
‘Yes. Well, no, not really.’
‘What’s up?’ I pour hot water over coffee granules and watch the black swirling liquid fill my ‘VW Forever’ mug. I stir in a sugar. She’s still silent. ‘Sarah?’ I prompt.
‘I had an accident.’
Her voice sounds so dulled and serious that I put down the teaspoon. ‘What kind of accident? Are you OK?’ I imagine crashed cars, hospital beds. It doesn’t sound as if she’s in a hospital though, there’s no background noise.
‘Nothing particularly serious. Only, I broke my leg.’
‘Oh no. Sorry about that.’ I sometimes wonder whether I am so used to apologising to Sarah that ‘sorry’ is my auto-responsewhenever something negative happens in her life. Although that is what people say, isn’t it?I’m sorry. Which is ridiculous because of course, it’s not my fault. I don’t think.
‘Yeah.’ She’s still uncharacteristically quiet.
‘But you’re OK… I mean, otherwise?’
‘Yep.’
