Camping

When I was 12 years old the worst thing that ever happened, happened.

In July of that year, Mother, Father, Brother and I went on our compulsory annual camping holiday. The destination was the South of France which necessitated a long drive from the grim north of England. Our undersized and under-powered car was laden with paraphernalia both necessary, such as a tent, and unnecessary such as English tea ‘theirs just doesn’t taste the same’. The old Austin was so heavy that every turn made her groan and yaw like a liner heaving at a mooring.

As always, we left in the dark, horribly early to ensure we got to the ferry on time. That morning was dreamlike and ethereal as we slid through darkness to dawn. My brother and I were on the back-seat half at slumber as we flew through little towns and villages past streetlights and bin lorries. On this trip the rain was our constant companion lashing against the little car as it battled its way gamely through whatever mother nature could throw at it. The windscreen wipers produced a hypnotic metronome to measure our journey as they clunked and battled hopelessly against their watery foe. Under bridges the rain ceased momentarily then immediately hurled itself indignantly at the car as the darkness spewed us out from the tiny respite.

There were always long periods of silence interrupted by short, snappy exchanges and unkind words. We were going the wrong way, too quickly or not quickly enough. The backseat was the Gaza Strip. Neither side willing to concede the others right to be there or even to exist. We took any opportunity for land grabs with any lack of awareness or distraction immediately punished. The conflict was overseen from the front seat where NATO sat with poorly veiled disinterest and simmering anger.

‘Please, just be quiet’

Of course, now I hear the exasperation, the disappointment at this unfulfilled life. No-one dreams of camping holidays with two pre-teen, obnoxious boys, do they? I had my ubiquitous, well-worn copy of Catcher in the Rye to read for the fiftieth time, not really understanding but wanting to be like Holden, to be the most terrific liar you ever saw and tell you of all the David Copperfield crap.

It was late afternoon as we reached Dover to join the snaking queue of sad hatchbacks, caravans and lorries slowly crawling towards our vessel which is fantastically large, impossibly floating in the black water. The tiny gap between the massive hull and the harbour wall protected only by tyres suspended on ropes. What would become of anyone who fell into this abyss? Crushed against the wall by the unfeeling behemoth or dragged under by propellers and minced to pieces, flooding the sea with a pink fizz as limbs were instantly blitzed like a giant smoothie. That would be something to see. Holden, you would love that I think.

A man in a fluorescent jacket tells us to inch forward a little more, a little more, he uses his hand to guide us. We watch intently as we seem impossibly close to the car in front. Slowly, slowly, stop! The hand goes up, father stamps on the brake and the car lurches to a halt with what feels like a millimetre to spare.

Up on deck the vessel resembles a giant floating shopping complex full of drones milling around eyeing their fellow travellers with undisguised interest or disdain. We hold our little plastic bags from the supermarket. They contain our lunches which are as sad as the bags that contain them. Nondescript, warm, beige items are curled and unappetising after the long journey. They are wrapped so tightly that they resemble little corpses lined up waiting for autopsy after a fire or stadium collapse.

The ferry becomes impossibly loud for several minutes as the engines strain and pull, converting fuel to power to propel the hulking mass across the Channel. Everyone heads to the top deck watching England disappear into the mist. Only the truck drivers remain below decks, drinking tea, eating fry ups or pumping coins into fruit machines. Their expressions are murderous and dark.

France is astonishingly close, and the ferry ride is over soon after we lose sight of England. A loud buzzer warns everyone to troop back to their cars or lorries and wait for the doors to open. We sit quietly and hear metal on metal, loud and angry, voices shouting engines roaring then quiet. The hulking, enormous doors open slowly revealing our first eye level view of France. Engines start, cars jostle and the man in the jacket guides us off one lane at a time.

At the campsite the tent is unpacked, and something is always forgotten. Tempers fray and danger crackles through every staccato word and phrase.

‘If you want it that way round why don’t you just ask?’ ‘I am lifting it.’ ‘It is lined up.’

We know better than to say anything my brother and I. At this moment we are unified, we are Switzerland in face of brewing global conflict. The slightest spark of a misplaced word could ignite the entire World. We are impossibly small, not making eye contact or offering suggestions. We sit quietly at first then slope away when we are able. It was during such a wander that the worst thing that ever happened, happened.

Oh Holden, I saw a girl. Beautiful, impossibly so with brown curly hair, tall with long tanned legs in cut off shorts, bare feet and painted toenails. She was my age, maybe a little older, she glanced at me and I see her deep brown, almost black eyes. Then she smiles at me. Her face illuminates like a Vermeer and I am transported. I am far away, I do not know where, but I am warm, I am happy and she is with me.

A man, who I assumed was her father, was erecting a tent in what seemed to be a parody of my own family’s efforts. He was small and thin with a weak, feeble moustache. The mother was round and stocky with strangely well-defined calves which resembled walnuts wrapped tightly in cling film, strong and vascular.

‘Merde’ I hear the moustache say as skin is trapped by tent pole. All eyes turn to him now as he dances around like a ballerina spouting what I assume to be French blasphemy aimed at the Gods of camping.

I retreat to our corner of England to find our well-worn French-English dictionary. I need something spectacular. I need to deliver sentiment which appears spontaneous but is life affirming. Words that will instantly remove the language barrier and make her envisage our future together. We can then simply plan how we will leave our families behind and make a life together on the campsite.

But I cannot piece anything coherent together. I decide my only choice is to keep it simple. ‘my name is…. What is yours?

Then when she tells me its Claudette, Marianne or something even more impossibly French I will ask her to walk to the beach with me. At that point, my plan assumes that we will need no further words. In later life I have been found to be dyslexic but at the time I was just considered slow. The words danced around on the pages like ants under a magnifying glass moving and jumping, not staying still. I was writing in an old exercise book with lined pages balanced on my knee while the dictionary lay open on the grass in front of me.

It is not perfect, of that I am sure, but I have tried hard and my 12-year-old heart and soul is now exposed in my pidgin French. I try to memorise it, but my undiagnosed difficulty and my nerves make this challenging.

Behind me my father is making proud sounds and mother is trying to sound impressed. The tent is erect, and he beams proudly like it is his third born child. He unzips the front flap and beckons his brood into this Shangri la. They obediently file in to feign admiration at his Newton-esque brilliance and I take my chance to abscond.

The sheet from the exercise book is tucked into the pocket of my shorts, folded in thirds and ready to be deployed if my memory fails me. I amble, as casually as I can muster, towards their tent not appearing to hurry. Even now, all these years later, I feel the grass under my bare feet and the dry welling feeling in my stomach, my tongue welded to the roof of my mouth. My heart is racing as I see her, I look past as if I am just a guy out for a stroll, no big deal, what of it?

Suddenly I am in front of her, a metre away, staring. She stares straight back defiant and confronting. To my surprise I do not look away or bolt, but my heart gets faster my tongue gets thicker, my left leg starts to shake imperceptibly. She suddenly smiles and now I struggle for air like that fish I caught the previous summer. I just stared at it dangling on my line with a hook firmly through its bottom lip not knowing what to do. Too afraid to touch it, too afraid to kill it I just watched it die, eyes bulging, gills flapping and gasping like a bellows until it expired in my hand.

She looks at me know with a quizzical, International gaze which unmistakably asks,

‘what do you want and why are you staring?’

What is my first line? It has vanished, gone out of my head. My brain is empty and non-responsive. Suddenly I am the fish on the hook gasping for breath, for inspiration, for divine assistance.

The paper! Of course, I wrote it down for just this situation. I reach my little hand inside the pocket and feel for it. But my hand is empty, I feel the other side in case it has miraculously transported itself, I pat myself like people do but it is gone, really gone. Along with my future.

‘Hi, Je suis, err I am, j’em appelle’

An incoherent stream of consciousness spews out of me. If you want the truth, I have no idea what I said but I said a lot.

Then, she laughed at me. Mean, cold and hard so incongruous coming from those warm, soft lips. She mocked me in French with words I could not understand but with a meaning I deciphered easily. My face burned with anger and embarrassment. I feel it now so many years later. I turn and run. Not metaphorically but literally. I spin 180 degrees and sprint away, trying not to sob and appear nonchalant, but that mask has slipped, and I am a little boy running to his mother. Her cackling laugh and no doubt arrogant, hurtful words burrow into my ears like weevils. I remember sitting in our tent hiding my shame through the canvas. I remember breathing so hard I was not able to form sentences, I remember such anger, such fury, such malevolence inside me.

Holden, if you really want to hear about it, much of the next few hours are blurry to me but I remember enough, I think.

I saw her heading toward the toilet block. Now I could see she was arrogant, mean, rude, French! Even her gait was mocking and spiteful with every step telling me how stupid I was, what was I thinking, idiot English boy, ugly moron, loser. So I followed her slowly and quietly, if she saw or heard me, she made no sign of it. The toilets were well away from the tents of course and no-one was there, I hear laughter and shouting but its drifting towards me from far away. She turns and sees me, surprised and suddenly I see a glimmer of fear.

I shout, a garbled roar that comes from deep inside me, it comes from my gut, from my heart, it is Neanderthal. She looks surprised but before she can say anything, I push her. A mighty shove with everything my small-boned body has to offer. I hit her with my palms outward in the centre of her chest. I see her eyes open wide as she registers shock but has no time to say anything other than a small squeal of indignant surprise. Then she hits the ground, hard. She has had no warning, no time to prepare her body for this tussle with gravity. There is a rock, oh Jesus a big rock sticking proud of the hard, grassy surface behind her. Her head collides hard with the million-year-old fragment of a long-forgotten past, a sickening dull thud emanates from the ground and instantly she was silent and still.

Next, I was in our tent. There was commotion outside, and I hear it. An anguished, animal scream that is coming from muscular calves. It is full of disbelief, anger and shock. Behind the toilet block a murmuring crowd gathered around her, so small and helpless but looking like she was asleep in the grass without a care. There is no blood, how can there be no blood? But she is grey, her face resembles a waxwork, plastic and shiny. The life has gone from it now, she is wearing the only face that she will ever have.

The little man with the weak moustache is kneeling on the ground pounding his fists in the dirt, gasping and howling for air. His daughter is so close he is almost hitting her body, but he does not notice. Men including my father pull him up and away, hands are at mouths, eyes are bulging. I cannot look at her so I turn away to see my mother staring straight at me. There is something in her eyes, or is there something in mine?