My Not So Perfect Life(54)

To Dominic and Poppy.

Divorced dad with his daughter. He mentioned that twice while he was booking over the phone. He said he wanted quality time with his little girl, and his ex keeps her too cooped up, in his opinion, and she needed more outdoor play, and he didn’t agree with a lot of his ex’s decisions….You could hear his pain. It was sad.

The glampers often do phone up, even though you can do it all online. They’ll say it was to check some detail, but I think they want to be sure that the place really does exist and we don’t sound like ax murderers, before they put down a deposit. Which, you know. Fair enough.

To Gerald and Nina.

Gerald and Nina are the grandparents of one of the families. I love it when multigenerational families come to stay.

Finally all the yurts are ready. Biddy’s laying up tea in the kitchen—we always offer this when the glampers arrive. Good hearty pots of tea, with her own scones and Ansters Farm jam. (Available to buy.)

Our kitchen really isn’t up to much—the cupboards are crummy MDF and the counters are Formica. It’s not like the “rustic” kitchens you find in London, with their Agas and larders and thickly hewn oak surfaces from Plain English. But we do have original flagstones, and we spread a linen cloth on the table and hang bunting everywhere and…Well. It does.

I’m walking back to the kitchen when Dad falls into step beside me.



“All set?” he says.

“Yes, it’s looking good,” I grin at him and touch the scarf round his neck. “Nice bandanna, Farmer Mick. Oh, and I meant to tell you, the showers got a special mention in one of the feedback forms. It said, Very good, for a glamping venue.”

“They’re very good for any venue,” retorts Dad, in a mock-grumbly voice, but I can tell he’s pleased. “That reminds me,” he adds lightly. “I saw something might interest you. Howells Mill, down in Little Blandon. It’s been converted into flats.”

I stare at him, puzzled. This seems a total non sequitur.

“Nice bathrooms,” clarifies Dad, seeing that I look blank. “Power showers.”

OK, I’m still not with him. What do power showers in Little Blandon have to do with me?

“Just in case you were looking,” Dad continues. “We could help you with a deposit, maybe. The prices aren’t bad.”

And then suddenly I get it. He’s suggesting I buy a property in Somerset?

“Dad…” I barely know how to answer. How can I even begin? “Dad, you know I’m heading back to London….”

“Well, I know that’s your plan. But plans change, don’t they?” He shoots me a sidelong, slightly shifty glance. “Worthwhile knowing what your options are, at least, isn’t it?”

“But, Dad…” I come to a standstill, the breeze lifting my hair. I don’t know how many times I can say, “I want to live in London.” I feel like I’m bashing my head against a wall.

There’s quiet, except for the distant sound of cows. The sky is light and blue above us, but I feel weighed down with guilt.

“Katie, love…” Dad’s face crumples with concern. “I feel like we’ve been getting you back these last months. You’re not so thin. Not so anxious. That girl up there…that’s not you.”



I know he means well. But right now his words are pressing all my sore spots. I’ve been trying to bolster my confidence so desperately all these weeks, telling myself this job loss is only a blip. But maybe Dad’s hit the nail on the head: Maybe that girl’s not me. Maybe I can’t cut it in London. Maybe I should leave it for other people.

A little voice inside me is already protesting: Don’t give up! It’s only been three months; you can still do it! But it’s hard. When every recruitment officer and headhunter seems to have the opposite opinion.

“I’d better get on,” I say at last. Somehow I manage a half smile—then I turn and head toward the farmhouse.

—

I’m just double-checking what activities we have lined up for tomorrow, when Denise appears at the kitchen door, holding a large plastic crate. It’s what she uses for picking up what she calls “them glampers’ crap.”

“All done,” she says. “Been round the site. All spotless.”

“Great; thanks, Denise,” I say. “You’re a star.”

And she is. In a way. She doesn’t always turn up—but when she does, she’s very thorough. She’s ten years older than me and has three daughters and you can see them being marched to school in the mornings, with the tightest plaits I’ve ever seen.

“The things them people leave behind.” She nods at the crate.

“Did they leave a real mess?” I say sympathetically.



It’s always a surprise to me, how nice families in tasteful outfits from Boden can be so messy. And inconsiderate. One lot wouldn’t stop feeding Colin the alpaca all kinds of dumb stuff, however much we told them not to.

“You’ll never guess.” Denise’s eyes are flashing with a kind of dark triumph. “Look at this!” She pulls a Rampant Rabbit out of her crate and I gasp.

“No! No!”

“What’s that?” Biddy looks round from the cooker. “Is it a toy?”