‘Not likely,’ Joan said. ‘Mum can’t take a few days off work. I have to go to the holiday club again, which is boring and stupid and you have to join in all the games and activities. Even if you bring your own book. They don’t even let you go for a walk.’
‘Well, this year will be different,’ Leanne said, getting up to give her daughter a hug. ‘I’ll book some time off, and we can look for somewhere nice to go on holiday.’
‘We don’t have enough money to go on holiday,’ Joan mumbled into Leanne’s arm.
‘Don’t worry about that, I’ll work something out. If it comes down to it, we’ll just have to rough it like Ollie.’
‘You roughing it is about as likely to happen as you taking time off.’
‘Hey, I’ve done enough camping in my time!’
‘Really, when?’ Joan pulled back so she could look at her mum.
Leanne instantly stiffened, looking away as she shrugged off the question. ‘As a kid.’
‘With your parents? My grandparents? Did they like camping?’
‘Yes. Now, look at the time. If you want to finish another chapter this evening, best get yourself into bed.’
‘But—’
‘Go on, bedtime.’
I might have dared to ask Leanne more about that – why a woman would choose to run to the middle of nowhere, where she had no home, no support network, nothing, rather than reaching out to her parents for help. Did they know where Leanne was? Did they even know they had a grandchild? Maybe they didn’t deserve to know, or perhaps for one reason or another, they didn’t care. They might have died, leaving Leanne no option but to press on without them.
Or were they somewhere hoping, praying that one day their daughter would come home?
Sunday morning:
Pitching a tent will do even more damage to the grass than your dog using it as a toilet.
Ebenezer had stapled a list of local campsites printed off the internet to the note. He’d circled a couple and written dog-friendly next to them. After a twenty-minute wrestling match trying to fold the tent back down, I’d decided that leaving it up all night would be a good test of its durability, and whether my pitching skills were adequate.
It was now zipped back in its bag and sitting perfectly positioned on my kitchen doorstep. I was itching to take the ten steps to Ebenezer’s back door. Maybe it was only when people knocked at the front that he was so rude? But I had nothing more to say other than ‘Hello’， and ‘I’m sorry for continually sabotaging your incredible gardening,’ and ‘Are you some sort of wizard because how else could you manage to string washing lines and build wooden shelters and keep this garden immaculate while remaining completely invisible?’
If a reasonable excuse for reintroducing myself didn’t present itself soon, I might have to make one up. But for now, all my courage and imagination was focused on Dream List item seven. My strange next-door neighbour was a challenge for another day.
Joan was at her holiday club the following week, so I could spend every spare moment obsessing over the camping trip.
After much internal debate, I settled on a six-mile hike that took in most of the forest park, as well as a stretch along a nearby river that led to the type of pub that would make a lovely spot for a lunch date with Dream Man. I’d also pack a fancy picnic to enjoy in the evening, allowing me to tick off another item on the Dream List. I dug out my warmest clothes to sleep in, packed minimal else and all that was left to do was spend several hours watching videos on survival techniques like how to build a campfire and survive a bear attack.
Saturday morning, Nesbit and I woke to wide-open blue skies. After a fortifying breakfast of eggs and beefy kibble, we set off out the back gate, the sun a hazy ball of butter ahead of us. Joan waved us off – ‘Whatever you do, don’t stray off the track!’ – and I couldn’t help feeling a little hobbit-like as I adjusted the pack on my back, water bottle bouncing against my hip.
It was a perfect day for ambling between the oaks and pines, hopping over tinkling brooks and in and out of splotches of sunshine, wildflowers spread like a fragrant carpet and the birds cheeping us on our way. Every so often we’d stop to consult the map, have a drink or simply soak up the loveliness. There was far too much life going on to feel lonely. If Steph had been with me, we’d have been too busy talking to notice much of the surroundings. If Mum had come on a hike, she’d have spent the whole time moaning about the dirt, the flies and the heat.