See You in September by Joanne Teague

7/29/2019 See You in September by Joanne Teague

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The right of Joanne Teague to be identified as the

Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordancewith the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Copyright Joanne Teague 2013

First Edition- 2013 -

Published byCandy Jar Books113-116 Bute Street,

Cardiff Bay, CF10 5EQwww.candyjarbooks.co.uk

A catalogue record of this book is availablefrom the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-9571548-7-2

Cover illustrationCopyright Nathan Hudson 2013

Printed and bound in the UK byCPI Group (UK) Ltd,

Croydon, CR0 4YY

All rights reserved.No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a

retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means,electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise

without the prior permission of the copyright holder. This bookis sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade

or otherwise be circulated without the publishers prior consentin any form of binding or cover other than that in

which it is published.


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Dedications:

For Danny, Will, Alice and Peter. Family memories to lastforever.

How do you eat an elephant?

You chop it up into tiny pieces and you just get on and eat it,piece by piece.

See You In September is dedicated to the memory of MarkWalker, my dearly loved big brother, who lost his battle withVascular Ehlers-Danlos in October 2012, age 56 years. You

were always so much wiser than me!


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If you invite one hundred and fifty family members andfriends to your leaving party, should you be flattered oroffended when one hundred and fifty turn up?

We would have plenty of time to ponder on this over the

next few months; tonight was a time to share with those closest

to us. A time for our final farewells before setting off on an

adventure that had been so long in the planning.

The hall that we had spent the afternoon decorating with

flowers and helium-filled balloons was now throbbing with70/80s music and the excited chatter of so many friends. The

dance floor heaved with the gyrations of the middle-aged

reliving their glory days. Sophie, taught by her teenage son to

play air guitar, was centre stage, on her second rendition of

Stairway to Heaven. Others clapped and egged her on; not that

she needed much in the way of encouragement.

Sally, my close friend of many years, was chatting in thefar corner and was trying not to wince at the rock music. Both

she and her husband are professional musicians, and a cello

concerto or piano recital was more their style. Rock music and


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ABBA medleys were testing their endurance and the fact that

they had come to the party was confirmation that they were

true friends.

I looked for Danny in the crowd. Fifteen years of marriage

had taught me that I was unlikely to find him on the dance

floor. He was on the far side of the room, pint in hand, holding

court amongst a group of his work friends, no doubt deep in

conversation about the latest rugby scores.

Hiya, Jo, got you a glass of red. Jen was tottering across

the floor towards me, Lyn clutching her arm for stability. Theywere juggling three glasses of slopping wine with a large pink

box.

Youre a lucky bugger, going on this trip, said Lyn.

Got room in the boot for me? asked Jen.

Sod off! Im going if theres a spare place, said Lyn,

cackling. They had obviously started the evening earlier than

most. With much giggling they placed the three drinks andlarge box on the table.

This is for you, dont let him have it, Jen chortled,

nodding in Dannys direction. A quick peek inside the box

revealed an assortment of fancy face packs, face creams and

body lotions.

I thanked them and offered my assurance that I wouldnt

need to keep Danny away from the girly treats. Although he

did do the ironing once, Danny can hardly be described as a

New Man. The chances of him spending the evening adorned

with a pink face pack is about as likely as Wales winning the

football World Cup.

More friends were arriving and a second large box, highly

decorated with ribbons and bows, was paraded in with greatceremony. Danny and I found ourselves jostled to the centre

of a circle of friends, all watching us expectantly. A large label

proclaimed that the box was an emergency survival kit. Inside


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were numerous packages each bearing their own label:

paracetamol for when the wife has a headache, a nit comb

for when little buggers get on your nerves, and, of course, the

largest box of Kwells known to man they knew that Danny

hadnt stopped fretting about the ferry travel since wed booked

it.

Each gift was met with a hoot of laughter and we were

egged onto delve deeper and deeper into the box. In the bottom,

hidden beneath the other parcels, was an envelope containing

a large sum of euros and a note signed by many of our friendssaying: Treat yourselves to something special, but make sure

you think of us when you do. Danny and I grinned at each

other. In a rare moment of thinking alike we both knew that

something special was happening.

The evening culminated in a lusty rendition of Summer

Holiday Cliff would have been proud. Even Sally could be

seen tapping her feet and beating out the rhythm on the table.It was time to say our final farewells.

See you in September! we chanted over and over again,

until our faces ached.

The final people to leave were Jen and Lyn. Wine glasses

still in hand, they gathered up handfuls of the multi-coloured

balloons and made off like two naughty schoolgirls, staggeringlike Laurel and Hardy as they made slow progress down the

corridor.

Danny and I stood hand in hand, laughing as they left. We

would miss our friends. Emails and texts would help, but these

could never replace catching up over coffee or sharing a bottle

of wine together. The school run always provided a rich source

of gossip. As we stood together, surveying the remains of thecelebrations, we began to wonder whether we had made the

right choices.

Itll be funny not seeing anyone, wont it? I mused.


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Well be fine. Anyway, whats wrong with my company?

Danny replied.

Nothing, nothing at all its just

Its too late to back out now. Just think all those months

of planning and were finally doing it.

Danny was right. No more planning, no more fretting; it

was time to get on with enjoying ourselves.


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We began to believe that we might actually do it. Dannywas due to retire from the RAF in 2009, and thechildren would not be in critical school years, so it seemed tobe as good a time as any far enough away not to plan the

details, but close enough to dream about.

The planning grew more intense, the itinerary grander by

the day. Danny had high hopes of six months exploring

Australia and New Zealand; I fancied the Galapagos Islands

to see the turtles. Ten-year-old William pictured himself lion

spotting in Africa and Alice (six) and Peter (five) would settle

for anywhere with a swimming pool. The Great Wall of China,

India, Borneo and Mexico were also thrown into the pot. So

many dreams. So many fantasies. Such a long way to fall.

Our plans came to an abrupt end in January 2003 when I

developed a near-fatal heart condition requiring emergency

heart bypass surgery. Two months in hospital were followedby many more months of slow, arduous rehabilitation. In a

few cruel moments, I had been reduced from a frenetically busy

mother of three young children, who managed to walk the odd

marathon and juggle home life with work as an occupational


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therapist, to a pathetic weakling, too frail to move from the

sofa. I had a terrifyingly irregular heartbeat, which reduced me

to a nervous wreck. I was too terrified to be left alone, too

exhausted to look after the children. A rehabilitation

programme and sheer bloody-minded determination saw me

back on my feet, but even making it to the school gate to collect

the children felt like running a marathon. Hiking in the

Himalayas was definitely off the agenda.

Life was grim enough but in May 2004 our lives were dealt

the hammer blow. I was told that my need for heart surgerythe previous year was caused by a condition called Vascular

Ehlers-Danlos a rare genetic disorder of collagen. We were

told that there were six main sub groups of Ehlers-Danlos with

the most common ones being the Classical and Hypermobility

groups. In these types the joints are hypermobile and the skin

very stretchy and easily damaged. The sufferer often has severe

unexplained pain and it has been called an invisible condition;outwardly the person looks well. In the Vascular type, the skin

is translucent but not stretchy and the joints are usually

unaffected. Instead, the lack of collagen makes the blood

vessels and other internal organs fragile. My blood vessels were

weak and prone to rupture without prior warning. The doctors

could not promise me that the horrors of the previous year

would not be repeated. Their advice was to go home and get

on with life. Easier said than done, but we immersed ourselves

in the day-to-day business of raising a family, until a second

medical consultation with a so-called expert in the field was to

completely demolish the already crumbling fabric of our lives.

Go home and look it up on the Internet, she advised. Not

much has been written about the vascular form of Ehlers-Danlos, so thats your best bet. So, like lambs to the slaughter

thats what we did.

As soon as the children were tucked up in their beds that


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night, we poured some wine for Dutch courage (Im so glad

we did) and hurried to the computer. What we found turned

the wine sour and stunned us into a grief-stricken silence. At

first, we read what we already knew; that most people have no

idea that they have this condition until they become seriously

ill, usually in their twenties or thirties. For a large number this

is the end of the road, while others recover only to have further

ruptures in the following years, needing more major surgery.

A line jumped out at us: If the patient survives the first event

it is unlikely that they will survive past the second or third.One down, one (maybe two) to go.

Dreading what was to come next, we were compelled to

read on. The next bit was a real gem. It informed us that the

average life expectancy for someone with Vascular Ehlers-

Danlos is forty-one years. I was two months off my forty-first

birthday. Great!

I assume everyone reacts differently to a situation like thatand although you may imagine what you would do, no one

knows until faced with dire reality. Dannys reaction was to

bury his head in the sand, mine was to weep and wail and to

seek out as much information as I could. The only one to

benefit was the dog. Treated to daily stomps to the beach and

along the headland, if he minded my yelling at the wind he

didnt say so. He was probably too engrossed in chasing rabbits

to notice my sorrow. Danny and I couldnt bring ourselves to

talk to each other and the only thing we could agree on was to

protect the children from it all until we had got our heads

sorted. We circled each other for days until eventually my sister

provided some much needed advice.

Turn the bloody Internet off and get some proper help,she implored after yet another tearful phone call.

If only we had thought of that ourselves.

Once we had been referred back to the hospital to see a


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very down-to-earth consultant, and later to see a Professor who

was undertaking research into the condition, we began to see

that maybe the Internet search had only given worst-case

scenarios. Slowly we began to put it all into perspective. I might

never receive a telegram from the Queen, but neither was my

demise imminent.

Better get the Tesco order done as well need to eat this

week, and we may as well get on with the plans for my fortieth

birthday party, well OK forty-first but Id been too poorly to

have a big do last year.We went a bit quiet about our someday plan. We still

talked of faraway places, but the stories didnt have the Teague

family as the main characters; our hearts were not truly in it.

We didnt dare to plan ahead as far as 2009 it seemed like

light years away! As the days turned to weeks, and I was still

breathing, our hope for the journey began to resurface. Fate

can also be very obliging. In late 2005 Danny was offeredredundancy with six months paid leave and the offer of another

job starting September 2006. We stared in disbelief at each

other; the only chance at our someday plan had just slapped

us in the face.

We needed a reality check. Medical opinion suggested that

although I was probably as safe as the next person to fly, it

couldnt be guaranteed. Since it was such a rare condition, no

one really knew. My illness had knocked some of the bravado

out of us, and we were less enthusiastic about trekking the

Himalayas or searching for gorillas in the jungle. Even

Australia and New Zealand had lost some appeal. Im sure the

hospital facilities are first-class but it would still be a long way

from home if things went belly up.We also had the children to consider; they were a lot

younger than we had planned. Traipsing around the world

with three young children could turn nightmarish; this was


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supposed to be a fun trip.

Added to this, there was the small matter of funding.

Blowing Dannys entire redundancy package was seriously

tempting, paying off the mortgage less so. We put on our

sensible, middle-aged personas and split the budget down the

middle. A new responsibility had catapulted itself into our lives

we now needed to plan for the possibility that I would

become too ill to carry on working. Danny and I sat around

the kitchen table and, aided by copious amounts of wine, we

thrashed out what we wanted from the trip.Weve had a disastrous year, Danny said. I just want to

spend some time as a family: no problems, no stresses.

Youre right, I replied. Lets build some memories that

will last forever. Nothing more needed to be said. We both

knew what thatthought was about.

We wanted the trip to be a good mix of sightseeing and

relaxation. If the children were to have six months off school,we felt it best that they learn something; pure frivolous fun was

calling but wasnt really in the spirit of what we were aiming

for. This would be a more persuasive argument when the time

came to confront their head teacher about our plans. With

flying out of the equation, our choice came down to boats or

driving. We toyed briefly with the idea of a three-month cruise

but knew that we would become frustrated by going along with

the crowds.

That left driving, which rather ruled out anything much

further afield than Europe. The more we thought about it, the

more the idea took off in our minds. Europe is not The World,

and Athens will never sound as exotic as the Galapagos

Islands, but it ticked all the right boxes. We could already thinkof more than enough must-do sights to fill six months and

Danny and I liked to think that we knew enough European

history and geography to fill the childrens heads.


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Decision made.

Turning a dream into reality, however, is hard work.

Where would we go? What would we drive? Where would we

stay?

We encouraged the children to have an opinion, not that

much encouragement was required. Around the kitchen table

one night, we discussed the pros and cons of booking self-

catering accommodation or travelling in a motor home.

Predictably, the motor home won 3:2.

A whole new world of motor homes was revealed to us.Life had moved on since the campervan. We trawled the

Internet and spent hours climbing all over the latest models in

showrooms; some of the RVs were seriously impressive, with

more mod cons than the average home. One with a full-size

bath particularly took my fancy I could just picture myself

wallowing neck deep in soapy water, chilled wine in hand,

while Danny navigated through Italy.It was time for another reality check. The smaller models,

which were more affordable and better suited to the roads in

Europe, would be rather cosy for a family of five. The larger

models were impressive but would most definitely blow the

budget and were just too big for many of the places we wanted

to get to. Danny also paled at the thought of getting a

monstrous campervan on and off the Greek ferries. We would

have to tow a smaller vehicle with us to use once wed set up

camp, and somehow it was all getting a bit complicated. We

returned to our earlier plan of pre-booking self-catered

accommodation and travelling in a people carrier.

The children found it difficult to enthuse about the adapted

plan. We resorted to a tried and tested parenting technique;Tough! we told them. Were organising this trip and were

paying. Stay at home if youd rather. To soften the blow we

assured them the car would have a DVD player and at least


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one house would have its own swimming pool.

Great, can we have a diving board? asked Peter.

Can we takeLord of the Rings? asked William.

AndBrother Bear? Alice added.

Children are so easily bought.

For the next few weeks, Danny and I spent the evenings

sat at the kitchen table, elbow deep in maps and guidebooks.

It could be said that our idea to tour Europe was somewhat

general. Our mission now was to flesh out the plan. Although

dreaming comes without difficulty to both of us, decision-making has never been a strong point and we just couldnt

agree on where to start this adventure.

I fancy taking the ferry to Santander, crossing the Picos

D Europe and walking the last bit to Santiago de Compestela,

I said. A Christian pilgrimage seemed like a great beginning

to me.

Then what? Danny was clearly not warming to my theme.From there we can drive back to Barcelona and cruise to

Italy.

Be reasonable, he pleaded. Youre the only one who

wont chuck up.

Are we travellers or what? I sighed. Later, recalling

Dannys last bout of seasickness when we were still in theharbour at Calais, I reluctantly agreed.

Danny fancied starting in Florence, driving there via

Toulouse to call in on old friends. Therell be days of

motorway driving, the children will drive us nuts, I said. I

failed to warm to his theme. I started to worry; if we couldnt

even agree on where to begin how were we supposed to

organise a six month trip?Eventually after several more aborted evenings, we agreed,

for the sake of family unity, to forget the start and concentrate

on the rest of the trip. Athens was easy to plan it was to be


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the furthest point of travel. From there we could work

backwards.

Corfu was a must; we had both read the Gerald Durrell

books and a trullo in Puglia captured our imaginations. We

wanted to explore the Amalfi coast, Elba, the Italian Lakes,

Austria and Lauterbrunnen to show the children where our

married life began. The list grew and grew. I envisaged Greek

Island hopping, whereas Danny pictured trailing from one

Roman remains to the next. We continued tossing ideas about,

adding them to the list, deleting them again until we reacheda compromise and were satisfied. All we had to do now was

find somewhere to stay in each place and, oh dear, we still had

to agree how to start. I pleaded to head for the sun as early on

as possible but Danny remained resolute about no boats. Once

again, we agreed to differ.

The following week Danny came home from work

triumphant. Ive found it, he declared. Ive found the start!Fully expecting a vague plan to see some obscure remains

via at least three countries, my response was not as enthusiastic

as it perhaps could have been. His excitement unwavering, he

produced details of a house in Paris from his rucksack and

thrust them under my nose.

Lets stay here and then go onto Florence, Rome and out

to the sun in Athens. The piece of paper revealed details of

Bobs House a pretty house with a garden leading down to

the river set on an island on the river Marne in Paris.

Something about it just felt right. I smiled; he had indeed found

the start.


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Danny

Age:Not yet over the hill.

Strengths:Driving. Expert packer of car boot. Can light a BBQ.

Weaknesses: Stubborn and opinionated (when allowed).

Irritable when wife navigates. Refuses to acknowledge when

lost. Hopeless at foreign languages. Never does anything that

could be left until another day.

Loves:Beer, historical sites and doing nothing.

Dislikes:Tomatoes, planning ahead and boats.Specialist subjects:Roman and Greek history.

Most looking forward to:Roman remains at Pompeii.

Dreading:Being dragged around art galleries.

Jo

Age:Just over the hill.

Strengths:. Multi-tasking (ability to cook, watch telly and drink

wine at the same time). Organised navigation. Likes to have a

go at speaking French and Italian.

Weaknesses: Stubborn and opinionated. Tends to lapse into


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very bad Welsh whilst attempting French or Italian. Prone to

falling asleep whilst navigating. Life falls apart if to-do list is

lost. Irritable in any weather that is not glorious sunshine.

Specialist subjects: Twentieth century history, reproduction of

ferns, wine, food.

Likes:Wine, sunbathing and boats.

Dislikes: Rain, early mornings and not knowing where the

nearest toilet is.

Most looking forward to:Uffizi art galleries. Sun-bathing.

Dreading:Being dragged around endless Roman remains.

William

Age:Ten years going on eighteen.

Strengths:Confident that he knows more than either hopeless

parent. Impressively fit. Can work car DVD player.

Weaknesses: Hopeless parents. Experiences withdrawal

symptoms if separated from football for over an hour. Easilyembarrassed.

Loves:Football and pizza.

Dislikes:Fruit and vegetables.

Most looking forward to:Rome. Football World Cup.

Dreading: Anything religious. Being seen with parents and

going to museums.

Alice

Age:Six years, considers herself wise beyond her years.

Strengths:Always right, even when proven wrong. Excellent

ballet moves. Cute and expert at bagging freebies off waiters

and market stallholders.

Weaknesses:Impressive ability to sulk and stamp feet. Unableto walk past an ice cream stall. Sings and dances constantly.

Loves:Swimming, chocolate, schoolwork and showing off.

Dislikes: Cheese, football and brothers.


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Most looking forward to:Corfu swimming in the sea.

Dreading:Boring art galleries and Dads history lessons.

PeterAge:Five years, maturity of a three-year-old.

Strengths:Always first to offer an opinion. Telling stories and

jokes. Mimicking other people. Trumping and burping the

alphabet.

Weaknesses:Stories have no ending. Never sits still. Unable to

walk with the family insists on his own route. Moansincessantly when sightseeing or walking uphill.

Loves:Eating pizza, pasta, chocolate, in fact anything edible

or otherwise. Football, swimming, making a mess and being

the centre of attention.

Dislikes:Sisters, being told what to do and schoolwork.

Most looking forward to:Swimming pools.

Dreading:Mountain walking in Switzerland.

Ruff

Strengths:Cute, loyal, very waggy tail.

Weaknesses: Selectively deaf. Sleeping on forbidden sofa.

Devours all consumable items. Chases anything that moves.

Loves:Sleeping, walking the coastal paths and chasing rabbits.

Dislikes:Anyone sleeping on his sofa.

Completely oblivious to:The fact that hes not coming on this

trip.


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After weeks of planning, packing, repacking and gettingour domestic affairs in order, we are finally ready. Forthe first time in Teague history, all items have been crossed offthe multitude of to-do lists.

The rather swanky people-carrier sits gleaming in the drive

its been lulled into a false sense of security what with all the

polishing and admiring looks. It has no idea of the abuse it is

to endure over the next six months.

Much to the childrens dismay I have packed a large boxlabelled schoolwork.

Informing the head teacher of our plans had been top of the

to-do list and three weeks later it is still top of our to-do list.

We agonised over correct procedure; do we tell her were

going, ask her permission to take them out of school or, if it

came to it, beg? We rehearsed our reasons for going and hada believable plan as to how we would continue their education

whilst away. The appointed hour loomed large.

Outside the head teachers office Danny and I perched


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nervously on the tiny child-sized seats strategically placed to

cause maximum intimidation to an errant child awaiting their

fate. We fidgeted and squirmed dreading our moment of

reckoning. Mrs Connolly, an Irish firebrand with a reputation

for speaking her mind and no hesitation in telling any parent

the error of their ways, was not expected to give us an easy

ride. She had spent the last year on a one-woman mission to

improve school attendance by dissuading parents from taking

holidays during term time. Our plans would blow her beloved

statistics out of the water. After many long knee-tremblingminutes her door opened and we received our summons.

Bustling around the tiny office, she cleared the piles of files and

books from two chairs and gestured for us to sit down. Perched

on her high throne on the other side of her desk she peered

over the top of her spectacles and fixed us with a stern stare.

How can I help you? she asked.

Well... we... wed like to ask your permission... Istammered. She raised one eyebrow and I faltered. Sensing we

were losing the upper hand, Danny went for the direct approach.

Actually, weve come to say were taking the children

around Europe for six months so they wont be in school until

September.

We waited, hardly daring to breathe, for the expected tirade

and endless list of bureaucratic rules to inform us of our

irresponsible behaviour.

Fantastic, if only more parents would think like you!

Throwing her arms in the air with delight her response caught

us totally off-guard.

What? You dont mind about the attendance figures? Is

that OK?Ahh, who cares a damn about statistics?

Well we thought you did actually.

Just think what they will learn, the language, the


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geography, the culture. How wonderful! Oh yes, yes, more

parents should think like this. Tell me, tell me where are you

going?

Huddled around her desk, Danny and I began to outline

the itinerary. Were starting in Paris and then travelling down

through Italy and on to...

Italy, ooh I love Italy, you must go to Amalfi. I remember

I Ill get the year fours to put a map up in the hall and then

we can follow your route. So exciting! She gazed out of the

window, lost in her own thoughts, perhaps recalling her ownmemories of time spent in Italy.

Danny and I dared to glance at each other; this was going

better than either of us had anticipated.

It was only then that she remembered that she should be

in headmistress mode. The stern stare over the rim of her

spectacles returned and she said, What will you do about the

childrens schoolwork? We cant have them falling behind.William is coming into his most important year and Alice has

settled in so well, shes a very bright little girl. I started to

remind her about the third little Teague in her school but

hastily bit back my words. Six months absence would be

equally welcome from both sides.

We tried our well rehearsed lines. Give us a list of the

textbooks we need and well make sure they use them.

My school budget doesnt run to lending out textbooks,

she assured us.

Of course not, we replied. Were more than willing to

buy them.

We were fixed with another stern stare.

Come with me.Bustling down the corridor, she marched into Williams

classroom where she disappeared inside a large cupboard. She

hurried on again and we followed her to another classroom.


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Within a few minutes, we had a large pile of textbooks in our

arms.

I cant give out textbooks, she announced with a wink.

Course not, we winked back. We got the message, keep

quiet and return them in September.

Well, that was Mrs Connolly sorted. That just left the dog. Ruff

was going on his own adventure to stay with some friends in

the village. They were dog novices and in two minds as to

whether to get their own dog. They viewed this as a chance for

a trial run. We fully expected them to be the proud owners of

a cat by the time we returned.

As I packed up his belongings, Ruff grew excited he knew

the routine and had assumed that he was coming with us as

usual. He bounced to the front door and waited for the moment

when he could jump into the boot of the car. Guilt washed over

me and I mollified myself by feeding his expectant face withchocolate biscuits.

For heavens sake! Danny yelled. Hell throw up on their

carpet if you give him any more.

Friends carpet in mind and smothered in a soggy mess of

tearful kisses, Ruff was eventually bundled into the car with

his bag of belongings. He looked rather pleased with himself

as we waved tearfully from the driveway. I bet Danny didnt

tell our friends that Ruff liked to get fruity with his blue blanket.

Tomorrow was only a few hours away. It was time to get

the last few jobs done and the car packed. The phone had rung

continuously and there had been a steady stream of well-

wishers to the door. Our faces ached and wed had our fill of

tearful hugs and chants of See you in September! We put theword out that we would love to see everyone, but that we

wouldnt be answering the door after 5pm on Monday. There

was method in this. In one last bout of domesticity, my plan


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was for us all to strip off our clothes and put on just our dressing

gowns. I wanted to wash and dry the clothes, and then I really

could bin the to-do list.

By 9pm, we were sorted and the children were finally

asleep. Loading the car revealed the first chink in our carefully

prepared itinerary. We live on a main road and as Danny

carried the first boxes out to the car, he glanced down at his

attire.

For Gods sake, Ive got my dressing gown on! he

squeaked as he ran back inside, desperately pulling his nowherenear full-length dressing gown down. He rummaged about in

the wardrobe and came back with what was once a presentable

outfit. The multi-coloured mishmash of paint, unidentifiable

stains and gaping holes told the story of ten years worth of

house renovations, garden landscaping and the day Ruff took

a fancy to it. It was not a sexy look but was deemed to be more

presentable than the dressing gown.With the last of the boxes finally stashed in the boot, we

poured ourselves a glass of wine and settled down on the sofa

to unwind. We congratulated ourselves on getting this far but

neither of us dared to voice the many what ifs inside our

heads. To our horror the doorbell sounded.

Oh my God, who the hell is that? I managed in a loud

whisper. Just look at the state of us!

We did what any rational person would do; we ignored it.

It might just go away. Thirty seconds later, it sounded again.

Danny peeked around the curtain,

Good God, its the vicar! he exclaimed as he hurriedly

closed the curtain. Too late, the vicar tapped on the window

where Danny had been standing; hed obviously seen us.Oh my God, he muttered.

Stop saying God, its the vicar! I snapped. Our only option

was to act cool. We welcomed him in, cleared a space for him


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on the sofa and poured a large glass of wine. It said more about

his suitability to the job than any sermon ever could that he

didnt so much as raise an eyebrow. Perhaps sharing a bottle

of wine with two members of his congregation, one dressed in

nothing very much, the other in rags, was just a normal

Monday night for him.

Hed come to offer his own see you in September, and

possibly make a thorough inspection of the car. Over the years,

he and Danny had spent far more time discussing the merits

of numerous vehicles than any spiritual matters. As a vicar, hehad added a new dimension to the job of ministering to the

people of our village. He could sniff out anyone wishing to sell

a car at fifty paces and always knew of someone else in the

parish in desperate need of such a vehicle. A deal would often

be struck without the buyer so much as seeing the car, and so

long as the vicar was presented with a bottle or two of red wine,

everyone went home happy.Prior to his departure, he took us by surprise by saying a

blessing. He blessed us as a family, blessed the car and asked

for us to be kept safe on our journey. Were not sure why this

surprised us, it is after all a very vicar-like thing to do, but we

were touched beyond words and I choked back a tear or two

as he spoke. He presented us with a scallop shell, the symbol

of St James, which had been brought back by some church

members who had made a pilgrimage to Santiago de

Compestela. As wed toyed with the idea of making the

pilgrimage ourselves this seemed perfect. The next morning it

was given pride of place on the dashboard. In fact, it remained

there throughout the journey and has been put in a similar spot

in all the cars we have owned since. Its presence may not havebeen sufficient to prevent some very unholy scenes in the car

over the six months that followed, but it did bring us all home

alive.


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Tuesday morning finally dawned. It was time to go. The

children needed no shaking; they were dressed and ready to

go within two minutes of our alarm going off. None of us could

stomach breakfast; we had far more exciting things to be getting

on with. They piled into the car with none of the usual fights

over who sat where and mastered the workings of the onboard

DVD player within a few seconds.

Danny and I were less focused. We checked every door

and window many times, bickered over whether to leave the

curtains open or closed and argued over the need to pack morewarm clothes. Eventually, a good hour or so later, we were off

and after a long session of did you pack...? we settled into

contemplative silence. Our schedule was thrown to the wind

by the time we reached Swindon, no more than an hour or so

down the road. A major accident resulted in a long tail-back

and, more than a little flustered, we limped into the Euro

Tunnel terminal long after our train had departed.If we couldnt make it to the train on time, the rest of the

schedule was certainly going to defeat us. Luckily for us, cross

channel travel was in a bit of a lull and without too much delay

we were boarding the train.

A last minute decision to spend 400 on a Sat Nav had

paid for itself by the time we arrived in Paris. Even sitting in

five lanes of traffic on Le Periphique didnt faze us. Kylie (dont

ask its a Danny thing sexy voice, nice little mover)

instructed us every step of the way, and relaxed yet weary, we

duly arrived at Bobs House. Kylies announcement that you

have reached your destination was met by a loud cheer from

us all.

Madame Gilbert stood at the vast, wooden green gates tomeet us. Waving us in, we pulled up on the wide, sweeping

driveway whilst she closed the gates behind us. Within a

moment of opening the car door, we were greeted with a warm,


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23

enveloping welcome.

Bonjour. Bienvenue a la maison de Bob

Hello, ercroeso

Je suis Madame Gilbert, et vous?

Er oui, oui.

Like two startled rabbits caught in the car headlights, we

couldnt muster a word of French between us.

Cool. William wasnt helping. We looked from one to

the other, deafened by the awkward silence, not sure how to

fill it. The children made good decoys; we pushed themforwards and nodded frantically at them.

Bonjour Madame Gilbert, they chimed, as drilled in the car

earlier that afternoon. William squirmed with embarrassment

but Alice saved us all by dropping into a curtsey.

Alice oui? Si jolie!

Whilst Madame Gilbert tousled Alices hair and pinched

her cheeks, we stole a few precious moments to collect our

wits. We remembered a few basic phrases from schooldays and

we each tried a hesitant introduction. It was enough to break

the ice and Madame Gilbert was off down the driveway,

beckoning for us to follow.

In front of us sat a large detached property complete with

shuttered windows and ivy-clad walls. It looked like it hadcome straight off a postcard; square and incredibly pretty with

a huge lawn running down to the river. On the other side of

the river was a pathway bustling with students and workers

hurrying on their way. Nearby were families with young

children out feeding the ducks. Nestled by the river an outdoor

eating area, decorated with fairy lights, completed the scene.

It was way beyond our expectations. To be honest I didntreally have any. My thoughts had gone no further than getting

over the farewell party hangover and crossing items off the

to-do list.


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24

Madame Gilbert took our delighted faces as her cue for the

guided tour. We were led around the garden, shown (and

required to name) every bush and flower, bird and wildlife.

Not happy to stop there we were invited to take a detailed

inspection of every room and cupboard. We admired the

kitchen, thoughtfully stashed with Easter chocolates for the

children, and wine for the adults, and on through to the living

room with its green squashy sofa and French doors looking

out over the garden and river. We waxed lyrical about the

exquisite stained-glass pictures perched on easels along thestaircase and delighted in the bedrooms. There was one for

each of the children, decorated in bright primary colours and

Disney-themed bedding, and a larger room with a vast bed

looking out over the garden and river for Danny and me. Her

pride in the beautiful property was infectious and we soon

found ourselves promising to look after it as if it was our own.

Our first task would be to remove the stained-glass panels to aplace of safe-keeping for the duration of our visit.

Finally, we were left on our own. A quick rummage in the

boot for Tesco premium label tea bags (no others would do so

we had a six months supply with us, the only exception to our

well eat what the locals eat rule) and a pint of milk saw us

restored to somewhere near normality.

Something told us that we were going to like it here.

The island rewarded us with an idyllic evening stroll along

the riverbank, spotting the ducks and coypus. Coypus are funny

looking creatures, someway between a beaver and an otter.

Perhaps an extremely large rat would be a more appropriate

description. They enjoyed the remains of our lunch anyway.

Just a shame we hadnt read the multitude of dire warnings inthe house about feeding the vermin. Apparently, they can be

quite vicious and love nothing better than to wreck havoc in

the carefully tended gardens.


30/30

On our return to Bobs House, we noticed a footbridge at

the end of the garden, leading over the river. Excited to explore

our new surroundings, the unpacking and childrens bedtime

could wait. Hell, we were on holiday! We raced each other

over the bridge. It led to a pedestrianised street, lined with

delicatessens and speciality shops. The children took less than

a nanosecond to spot the chocolatier.

Oh yes, we were going to like it here.

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See You in September by Joanne Teague