Our Cornish Holiday
We all remember childhood holidays, usually with a dash of nostalgia, but, while I do remember holidays (one in particular) when the weather did not cooperate, this family’s troubles are nothing like mine: whenever we went on holiday as children, we all came home again.
“Whether the weather be hot,
Or whether the weather be not,
Whatever the weather,
We’ll weather the weather,
Whether we like it – or not!”
Trilled my mother as the fourth day of deluge hit our Cornish caravan holiday. She was trying her best, but with five of us including our baby brother, it didn’t help. Especially not with Dad.
‘Oh, for Pete’s sake, Claire, knock it off!’ My sister and I looked at each other – we both knew Dad would have said something other than ‘Pete’ if we hadn’t been around.
Dad was unemployed, and there was no money. Even Mum’s new shoes were trainers that were too big for her. I thought there’d be no holiday this year, until suddenly we’d been woken up while it was still dark, put into the car, and driven for hours until we arrived at this caravan park. ‘Uncle Harry’ – not that we’d heard of him before – was giving us the use of his caravan for a couple of weeks. In return, Dad was doing a few jobs for Uncle Harry. We never saw Dad doing any of these jobs. During the daytime, as best we could in the confined space, we learned to keep out of his way.
Every night, after we’d been put to bed – when their voices weren’t drowned out by the rain thrumming on the caravan roof – we heard Mum trying to get out of Dad what he was up to in the evenings: but Dad wasn’t saying.
The day Dad disappeared, he kept muttering about ‘the big one,’ was even more grumpy than usual, looked at his watch every five minutes, and went out in the rain almost every hour. I followed him once, sneaking out before Mum had time to shut the caravan door. Dad didn’t look round, he just went to the telephone box at the top corner of the caravan park, went inside, and … I don’t know if anything happened next, because Mum came hurtling up (like Dad, I’d forgotten to look behind me), grabbed me, turned me around, and hustled me back to the caravan, deaf to my protests that I was bored of being inside all the time.
‘And now you’re soaked to the skin. I don’t have so many clothes, I can change you every five minutes.’
As it was the first day I’d needed changing, I thought that was grossly unfair – it was baby brother Robert who needed changing countless times a day and, unlike my sister, I had zero interest in learning about nappies, or anything to do with anyone who wasn’t interested in playing cowboys or soldiers – proper games.
So, a typical English summer holiday, where all outdoor activity was asking for everyone to be soaked. The caravan had come with board games, so we played those. At least Mum, me, and my sister Susan did. Dad didn’t do games. Baby Bobby would watch, scream for food, or snooze while we sat there trying to get up some enthusiasm for yet another round of Ludo.
Dad had started smoking again, but was only allowed to smoke outside. He stood under the awning. I thought I was safe; we were safe. With him out of sight, I forgot, and started talking, laughing. Maybe I was even disagreeing with Susan.
‘I shan’t tell you again, Peter! Keep your trap shut!’ Dad stormed in, hit me round the ear, saw the tears start, leaned over me and hissed, ‘Stop being such a sissy!’ As I gulped down the pain, he disappeared.
All Mum did was look at me, shrug, whisper ‘It’ll sort itself out,’ and turn back to the game.
It was late afternoon when Dad came back to the caravan.
‘A bit earlier tonight. I need dinner at six.’
If memory serves, we were playing one of those drawing games. You draw a head, fold the paper over, but leave the two lines for a neck slicking out for the next person. The next person does the arms, then the chest and so on until you get to the feet. The results had been very funny. But with Dad there, my headache just got worse. Nobody said a word. Until baby Bobby started to grizzle, wanting to be fed.
Mum got up from the floor, where we’d all been spread out with paper and crayons. She went over to Dad, plonked Bobby in his unwilling arms, and said:
‘He needs changing as well. So why don’t you deal with all that while I sort your dinner? I’ll start peeling the potatoes this instant, shall I?’
Sarah and I froze. Dad shouting, Dad being cross, had become normal, background noise. But Mum? Without a word, we both selected another bit of paper and started drawing, literally keeping our heads down.
‘So? You’re not even prepared to look after your husband? You deal with the brat. I’ll get my meal at the pub.’ The ‘brat’ was returned to Mum. ‘You know where to find me. And don’t crash the car on the way.’ At least Dad didn’t slam the door on his way out.
Carrying a now screaming Bobby, Mum went as far as the caravan door to yell:
‘You know what you can do with your fancy schemes. I told you: never involve me!’
There was no reply we could hear. Not above the rain.
Baked beans, fried egg, sausages, and toast. And two bedtime stories. We never had two bedtime stories. Whether Sarah felt the same churning in her tummy as me, I don’t know. I’m pretty sure she fell asleep quicker than I did, because she didn’t stir when Bobby started crying. I think Mum took him to the car because, after that, it was very quiet. Not even the pitter-patter of the rain brought any peace. I could have got up and had a look, but – honestly? – I was scared of what I might, or who I might not, find.
I must have fallen asleep at some point, because, when I woke up, I heard Bobby again. Mum went to him and shushed him. But no sound of Dad.
After breakfast, we went for a walk. We went past the recycling bins. Mum put a plastic bag in the clothes bin. I heard a thud as it landed inside. We carried on down to the beach. We dug in the sand. Built a castle: it even had turrets. And it was sunny. When we walked back to the caravan, a police car was waiting.
Mum said Sarah and me were asleep all night, so we knew nothing. While the police lady talked with Mum, there was nowhere we could go, except play under the awning. We heard words: ‘drugs,’ ‘gangs,’ ‘fighting over territory.’ They asked Mum about our car. She cried, but sent me away when I dashed into the caravan to see what was wrong. She said she had to do what Dad said. Even if it meant leaving the kids. But she took the baby. Dad (she called him Kevin) said she had to be there at eleven-thirty. She went to this track by the cliffs – as instructed.
‘Can we look at the tyres, madam?’
‘Examine the whole bloody car if you want. I doubt it’s paid for!’
And, later: ‘Yes, I did get out of the car. I thought I might have parked in the wrong place – I was wearing these sandals … No, I didn’t see any “signs of a struggle.” It was dark!’ Then, with more tears, ‘I came back because I couldn’t leave my kids any longer.’
Then, while the police were still inside the caravan, this car came screaming onto the caravan park, and turned towards our caravan. It skidded to a halt (Mum said that was because the driver must have seen the police car), revved up, spun its wheels in trying to turn round – leaving huge marks in the grass which was still wet from the rain – and disappeared as fast as it arrived.
We did tell the police lady what had happened, but ‘big, black car,’ didn’t really help them much. Nor did our car, which the police took for a while. Mum got to keep her sandals. We never saw those too-big trainers again, though.
Dad was found at the bottom of a cliff. By the seaside. They thought he’d been pushed, or fallen, from the top of the cliff, in the rain. They can’t work out who else was there. The adults assume Sarah and I ‘haven’t taken it in’ that Dad is dead. Maybe we haven’t, but we do prefer life without Dad being there to shout, or hit us. Besides, we’ve been told it’s Dad’s life insurance that paid for our next holiday, in a villa in the south of France.
Where it didn’t rain once.