Travels With My Family by Teresa Ashby

If there’s one thing we had learned over the years, it was that life is no holiday camp . . .

ILOOK into my dad’s eyes and they seem to be swimming. Not a tear has escaped down his cheek, as if he’s somehow absorbing them. But they’re there all the same.

He’s trembling and every so often his whole body jerks.

“I can’t do this, Amanda,” he says at last.

“Yes, you can,” I say, squeezing my fingers round his hand. They’re rough hands from working hard all his life. “I’ll be with you.” He shakes his head. “What if . . .?”

I look round for help, but everyone is so busy.

“Come on,” I say. “Where’s that trademark optimism of yours?”

I feel pretty broken up inside, too, but I’m holding it together for him and I can’t afford to let it out.

“Remember that holiday we had in Norfolk?” I say, and he looks surprised that I should be talking about holidays at a time like this.

“How could I forget? What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well, we all thought it was the worst thing that could possibly have happened to us.”

He laughs bitterly. “We got that wrong, didn’t we?”

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to bring up the holiday.

My dad was always one of those obstinately cheerful people whose cup wasn’t just half full, it was overflowing.

Nothing fazed him. It drove my mother mad. One time a pipe burst and we had water cascading through the kitchen ceiling, which had partially collapsed.

“You always wanted an indoor swimming pool, love,” Dad said.

I seem to remember Mum hitting him and him pulling her into his arms.

“Don’t you worry,” he said. “I’ve got you. I’ll make it right. I always do, don’t I?

“And look on the bright side. With all this damage we can claim on the insurance for a new kitchen.”

“But how are we going to manage right now?” Mum cried. “How am I going to cook dinner?

“How will I make the kids’ packed lunches? It’s blown the electrics and drenched everything.

“What are we going to do? We can’t even use the bathroom.”

“First of all I’m going to turn the water off, then you’re going to take the kids over to your mother’s.

“I’ll ring round to find a plumber. Once we know what the damage is, I’ll contact the insurance company.”

He was so calm. As we all went out to the car, I saw him put his hand over his eyes and drag it down his face and, for a second, I saw despair, but he caught my eye and winked.

Mum left us at Nan’s and went shopping so Nan wouldn’t have to feed us.

She got us new lunchboxes and bought our dog, Tess, a new bed even though she always slept in the armchair or on my bed.

By the time Dad came round to Nan’s, Mum had dinner underway and our packed lunches were made.

“Did you bring any clothes for us?” she asked.

“Sorry, love, I didn’t think,” Dad said.

“Is it safe to go upstairs?” “Yes, I think so, as long as you don’t go in the bathroom.”

“I’ll fetch what we need,” Mum said.

“Pack for a holiday,” Dad said. “I’ve arranged to borrow a friend’s caravan by the sea.

“The plumber is going to start work tomorrow and I’ve got someone coming to fix the ceiling so we might as well make a holiday of it.”

“But we can’t afford a holiday,” Mum fretted.

Money had been tight since Dad was made redundant. That was another drama.

“What are we going to do?” Mum had cried and he hugged her.

“Don’t worry, love, I’ve got you.”

“It’s all very well saying don’t worry, but we can’t pay the bills on my wages alone.”

Dad kept looking for another job, and after hundreds of ignored applications and dozens of interviews, he got a part-time job at the car wash.

It didn’t pay as well as his old job, but Dad did course after course at college until he hit the jackpot, as he called it, and found he had a real talent for plastering.

It may not sound like much, but his skills were in great demand and soon he was able to give up the car wash.

“I’ve been putting a bit aside every month,” he said.

“Fergus says we can have the caravan for free, so we can have some meals out and go out and about and I can afford to take a few days off now.”

So off we went, all of us crammed into the family banger: Mum, Dad, my brother, Scott, the dog and me.

The car choked and spluttered, but it got us there.

“Perhaps we should have spent the money on getting the car sorted out,” Mum said uncertainly as we bumped into a muddy field, around which were arranged an assortment of dilapidated caravans.

“This can’t be it,” Mum said. “Those things don’t look habitable.”

“Fergus said his was the fourteenth as you go round clockwise,” Dad said as he swerved round water-filled potholes.

Fergus had put a sign in the window of his caravan.

It was written on the flap of a cardboard box in black felt pen and read: Shangrylah.

“Fergus is a bachelor, isn’t he?” Mum murmured when she spotted the dingy net curtains.

“Yes,” Dad said. “He comes here with his mates to go on fishing trips.”

The caravan was ancient. It looked even worse inside.

There was fishing tackle everywhere along with waders and waterproofs.

Mum had a quick look in the bedrooms and came out with her hand over her mouth.

“I don’t think that bed linen has been changed since this caravan was built about fifty years ago,” she said.

“Fergus said it was a great place to relax. You don’t have to worry about all the mundane everyday stuff.”

“Like washing up,” Mum said, looking at the dirty crockery piled in the sink.

“Don’t worry, love,” Dad said. “We passed a B and B on the way here.”

“Back in the car everyone,” Mum said.

“Let’s hope they allow pets or we’re right up the creek without a paddle.” They didn’t.

We ended up hiring a tent at a campsite, where the tent leaked and Tess escaped.

We found her, packed up the car and set off for home, only for the car to break down somewhere near Thetford Forest.

And Dad’s roadside rescue had expired.

Mum sat in the car and cried as rain hammered down on the roof and Dad tinkered unsuccessfully with the engine.

The rest I’d rather forget. We got home eventually and we stayed with Nan until the work was finished on the house.

After that holiday Dad said it didn’t matter what life threw at us; we’d proved we could cope with anything.

“The holiday wasn’t great, but it brought us together as a family, do you remember? Scott and I didn’t argue at all and Mum was so busy fretting about it all that she forgot to worry about what was happening at home.”

Dad actually lets out a little laugh.

“Holidays after that were always brilliant,” he says. “Even if they weren’t.”

I know what he means. We always used that holiday as a benchmark.

“Well, the hotel might not be as comfortable as we thought, but at least it’s better than Fergus’s caravan,” Dad would say.

“So what if the sea view is ten miles in the distance? It’s better than that caravan.”

His smile runs from his face like ice-cream melting.

He shrinks back down until he seems almost tiny, not my big, strong dad at all.

I wish Scott would hurry. “Fergus meant well,” Dad says. “He was a nice fella. It was good of him to offer us the caravan.

“He didn’t see it as messy. It was just his bolthole, his escape from everyday life.”

I squeeze his hand. “Dad, come on. We can’t stay here all day.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. “Sorry, love. It’s too much. I just can’t.”

Scott arrives then and his face is as white as a sheet.

“I got here as fast as I could. Is there any news?”

“Nothing,” I say. “I’m just trying to get Dad to come in.”

I look towards the door.

It might just as well be made of cast iron and covered in chains and padlocks. Dad sees it as impassable.

“And you’ve been here since it happened?”

I nod.

“Right, come on, Dad,” Scott says, tugging at his arm. “We’ve got you.”

I hold his other arm. “We do,” I say.

“I’m scared,” he whispers, and I exchange a look with my brother.

We’re both scared, too, and we don’t even know what there is to be scared of yet.

So many times Scott or I said we were scared over the years, whether it was going to a new school, sitting exams or swimming without armbands for the first time.

“I’ve got you,” Dad would always say.

And even if he wasn’t there, we’d feel his presence as if somehow he was holding our hands.

We don’t know what’s waiting for us on the other side of that door.

It feels as if we’ve been here for ever, but it’s only been a few minutes since a nurse in A and E told us we should go to Bluebell Ward.

I’ve felt every heartbeat, every breath, and I’ve willed time to stop just to give us time.

“I’m scared, too, Dad,” I say.

“So am I,” Scott says. It seems to trigger something in him, stirring up the instinct he has to protect us and make everything right.

He looks first at me, then at Scott.

“Don’t be afraid,” Dad says, and he sounds so strong. “I’ve got you.” He can’t help himself. We go towards the door just as a nurse comes out. She smiles at us. “First bed on the right,” she says.

It’s the bed closest to the nurses’ station where they put the most seriously ill patients.

“The doctor will speak to you soon, but he had to deal with another emergency.”

We don’t know what to expect. Last time I saw Mum was just before they rushed her away for surgery.

It had all happened so fast, her collapse, then the race to hospital in an ambulance with the sirens wailing and lights flashing. It had felt unreal.

Mum’s propped up in bed, her eyes closed, as we shuffle forward.

I think we must all be holding our breath as Dad reaches for her hand.

Her eyes open at his touch and we all gasp in surprise.

“What happened?” she whispers.

“Ruptured appendix,” says a voice behind us.

It’s one of the doctors we saw earlier. He pulls his cap off and smiles.

“I’m afraid we couldn’t do it laparoscopically as it had burst and formed a mass which had to be removed, so your recovery time will be a little longer, but recover you will.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Mum says, managing to look embarrassed as we all start giggling helplessly.

I know a ruptured appendix isn’t funny and can be downright dangerous, but until this minute, none of us knew what was wrong with Mum. It could have been anything.

“Take care now,” the doctor says before rushing off to his next patient. Mum smiles at us. “Stop looking so worried,” she says. “It could be much, much worse.”

Dad tries to speak, but the words won’t come. So I have a go, but my throat seems to have frozen.

We look at Scott. He’s just staring at Mum as if he never expected to see her alive again.

Dad is still holding her hand. She reaches out with the other one and Scott and I both hold it.

It hits me then.

She always used to go to pieces when something happened, but once she got the initial panic out of her system, she came out of it stronger.

“Don’t worry,” she says. “I’ve got you.” ■