I took a deep breath, scrunched up my face and sent him the party invite.
An angst-wracked minute later, having received no reply, I realised that accompanying it with some sort of personal message so that he didn’t think it was a mass text was probably a good idea if I wanted a personal reply. Better late than never, I spent another ten minutes typing and then deleting until I came up with a suitable follow-up:
Hey, Sam – really hope you can make it!
30
Joan came out as soon as she saw the tent pop up.
‘We’re allowed to sleep in here?’ she asked, her entire body drooping to show that even camping wasn’t going to lift her spirits.
‘Yes. Ebenezer agreed, as long as we take it down first thing in the morning.’
‘First thing?’ She pulled a face. ‘His first thing is like four o’clock. We might not have even gone to sleep by then.’
‘We most certainly will have gone to sleep! And he said eight thirty is fine, which is perfect because you’ve got a lot to do tomorrow.’
‘Yes, like take Nesbit and hide in the woods where no one can find us, then build a shelter and a campfire and help Nesbit catch squirrels before picking berries and mushrooms so we’ve got some vitamins.’
‘Except that you hate mushrooms, and Nesbit struggles to catch a slug, let alone a squirrel.’
‘We’ll eat slugs then!’ She glared at me, but it was half-hearted at best.
‘Come on.’ I put one arm around her. ‘Remember the rule: no feeling all sad and sorry for ourselves this evening. We’re going to make the most of it and have the best time.’
Once the tent was up, sleeping bags and other necessities squeezed inside, we built a campfire inside a firepit that had mysteriously appeared on the lawn after I’d asked Ebenezer if he was okay about us pitching a tent. Once Joan had taken charge of lighting it, we soon had enough of a blaze to crisp up the sausages that I’d pre-cooked in the oven.
We stuffed hot dogs with fried onions, mustard and ketchup, opting for greasy hands instead of plates, the butter from charred corn on the cobs dripping off our chins. This was followed by the requisite marshmallows, and mugs of hot chocolate topped with cream and chocolate buttons.
We didn’t quite manage to stick to the rule about feeling sad. There were a couple of moments when Joan fell silent, her gaze lost in the glow of the fire. I had to turn away more than once to swallow hard and pull myself together. Once Nesbit had wolfed down his sausage, he snuggled up close to Joan, as if sensing her melancholy.
Then the music started, the first bars of ‘Uptown Funk’ pumping into the garden, shattering the mood in the best possible way.
‘Oh no,’ I called, getting up and marching over to Ebenezer’s open window. ‘If we’re dancing, you’re joining us this time.’
‘You can’t make Ebenezer dance, he’s eighty-one.’ Joan giggled.
‘If he can mow the lawn, trim the hedges and build a rain shelter, he can move two feet in time to his own music,’ I replied, loud enough for him to hear.
‘A good point!’
We stood there, side by side, hands on hips until the door finally opened, which was such a long time the track had gone all the way back to the beginning.
‘Is this what you do in that cottage all day?’ I said. ‘Dance to disco classics?’
Joan bopped over and took hold of her neighbour’s hand, swinging it about in encouragement.
I shrugged off the memories of the last time I’d danced in this garden and proceeded to attempt the kind of moves an eleven-year-old girl deserves when she’s about to leave her whole world behind because her mum is seriously ill.
Within moments, the door to New Cottage opened and Leanne shuffled out, Peter bracing her by the elbow. Carole was right behind them, flinging her arms out and singing along as though the pain of the past fifteen years was a forgotten nightmare.
As Ebenezer’s playlist rolled on to the next song, we adjusted our dance partners so that Leanne and Ebenezer could sway together while Peter and Carole did some sort of complicated jive and Joan gripped my hands as we spun and hopped and jigged about until the sun had set and the bats came swooping above our heads.
‘Right, that’s enough of that,’ Carole gasped eventually. ‘We’ve got a long day tomorrow. Let’s leave these wild ones to it.’
Once we’d cleared the remains of dinner into the kitchen and got ready for bed, we crawled inside the tent and lay on top of our sleeping bags. Still warm from the dancing, we left the tent flap open so we could see the moon sailing across the treetops. Our plan had been to read our own books before the designated lights out, but Joan handed me her battered copy of The Hobbit.