Under a Starry Sky: A perfectly feel-good and uplifting story of second chances to escape with this summer 2020!

by Laura Kemp

  The lie sat like indigestion in her chest.

  The reality was that nobody had come to her aid. Spike had seemed so willing, but maybe she hadn’t made it clear that it was urgent. And of course she couldn’t expect him to down his own tools when he had a new business to run. Annie had obviously had second thoughts, which Wanda couldn’t blame her for: she hadn’t mentioned her appearance to Mam or Carys either, for fear of adding more stress to the already difficult situation. Local farmers who might have had a spare hand had given her their apologies – they were already round-the-clock busy preparing for lambing. Electricians, plumbers, painters and handymen and women were all booked up too, although, bless them, a few had offered to come along for an hour or so at the weekend. But it’d be too late.

  She’d never accuse the community of not caring. Wanda completely understood – people had busy lives and now was the time of year when they came out of their winter slumber to fix their own backyards. So Wanda had cracked on with it by herself, using every spare minute doing what she could. But everything was a battle. Mowing the grass with Mam’s temperamental machine took forever just to cover a small area; clearing drains blocked with leaves revealed broken pipes, and bleaching toilets and grey-water points was all well and good, but she couldn’t tackle the jobs of dodgy lights in the loos and flooding showers, of turning bogs back into pathways and testing electrical hook-ups. Today’s delights included emptying the chemical loo disposal point and bagging up the rubbish and recycling in the bin area to take to the tip tomorrow. The reception kiosk needed a good clean and airing. If it was just that, though, maybe she could get through it. But the paperwork was heavy going, too. While she’d dealt with the water, gas and electric, there was still the insurance to renew and health and safety issues to appraise. Plus she had to make sure the guests had an up-to-date welcome pack of doctors’ numbers, campsite rules, nearest petrol station; the list went on. And it panicked her. The more she achieved, the more she realised she had to do.

  ‘I’d better go,’ Wanda said, fighting the fluster.

  ‘Take the Land Rover,’ Carys said at the exit, ‘I can get the bus.’

  ‘No, honestly, can’t have you doing that in the dark. The bus is due in five. It only takes half an hour.’ And the rest, while the passengers took an age to get off because they were too busy chatting to the driver. Why didn’t they just do the expected ‘cheers, drive!’ and bugger off? ‘It’ll give me time to make a few calls.’

  On the journey home, though, Wanda dropped the positivity act and went full hippo, sinking down into a mudbath of misery, helped by the dirty windows. It felt as if time hadn’t stopped so much as reversed – this was the same route she’d taken back from high school. The narrow country lanes felt claustrophobic. Living at the farmhouse, she was haunted by the world map on her bedroom wall, dotted with drawing pins marking where she’d been going to, which now were punctured dreams of places she’d never been. If only she could have gone back to her flat. She hadn’t dared go near it since – a ‘nice young man’ had rented it out but she didn’t want to see the actual person, to imagine him on her toilet seat or weeing in her shower. Sara had promised she’d keep an ear out for any problems. Her head was full of Annie and Lew, too; their reappearance had floored her and she was going to have to work out a way of coping, because avoiding them would be impossible. Trapped and drowning, she found herself empathising with pickled onions.

  I shouldn’t be here in this dank and dismal place, she thought. I should be waking up in that Colombian B&B, my eyes adjusting to glorious sunlight, preparing to start my Spanish course. Walking the cobblestone streets of crumbling, baking Cartagena, breathing in the rich dark coffee from elegant cafés, drinking in the bright colonial buildings before arriving at the classroom, rolling my tongue around the language; making friends, who knows, even going to the beach in the afternoon before an al fresco dinner and dancing the night away in a sexy salsa bar.

  The itch became a scratching frenzy, consuming her entirely. She pressed her lips together hard to counter the creeping sensation and dug her nails into her palms, looking for cars to count to distract herself. Bare branches scrammed the windows of the bus, setting her teeth on edge.

  She took out her phone, tapped the Instagram icon and there, immediately the aggravation subsided as she scrolled through her feed of travel influencers and tourist boards. A search of Cartagena took her to the powdery sand of Playa Blanca, the mangroves of Barú and the turquoise water of the Rosario Islands. By the time the bus pulled up in Gobaith, she was face down in sun-lounging hot-dog legs and pert bottoms in string bikinis. If only she could jack in all of this bother. A few emails and she could be away first thing … Damn this travel envy. Her barren @WandaLust account should have been stuffed with photos by now. It was embarrassing and so disappointing. How was she going to get over this? When would she be able to pick up her rucksack and get out of this dead end? In a month, two? Hardly. It didn’t look like she’d even get a week away in the summer, the way things were.

  She kept her head down as she disembarked, praying not to see anyone she knew. The nosy parkers would badger her about Mam, or about how she was dealing with the biggest let-down of her life. And inevitably someone would have received a postcard from Glanmor and say, ‘He’s gone naked paragliding in the Pyrenees!’ Shown up by a man twice her age. That scratch had left her with a bloody wound … and that reminded her she had to write a list of things to get for the first aid kit and stock up on camping essentials for reception.

  Back at the farmhouse, she threw herself into it, and by the time it was dark, she called it a day. Carys would be home any minute, so Wanda got going on a veggie curry, losing herself as she chopped away, savouring the gorgeous scent of spices mixed in with silky soft frying onion. Once the lentils, tomatoes and cauliflower were added, she let the pan bubble away and decided to open a bottle of wine at the kitchen table. As she sat down and let the chair take the strain off her aching legs, slowly the stress slipped away as she allowed herself to think she might actually make this all work. She’d got through the last few days and the site was looking less grim. Someone would come good, she’d just have to renew her begging mission tomorrow.

  Her eyes glazed over and she played with the stem of her glass, trying to be mindful of the moment. A burning smell wafted her way and she got up, tutting at herself for forgetting to stir the pot. But on inspection, nothing was stuck to the bottom. She turned the gas off just in case. Had she put some toast on absent-mindedly? Or was there a hob ring alight under an empty saucepan? No and no. Her spine began to creep and her nostrils tingled. It could just be a trick of the nose; she had a peculiar thing sometimes when she could’ve sworn blind something was on fire. But that was just from the trauma of the fire, she knew that. But she’d always check.

  Sniffing the air, she went to the back door, opened up and went into the cold dry night – and her stomach toppled over itself when she saw a cloud of smoke funnelling from a field across the way. Automatically, she held her hands over her nose and mouth to stop the taste of the acrid memory of the mountain breathing fire like a dragon. Her legs began to tremble and her heart was pounding. Come on, come on, pull yourself together, she thought, but her legs were stuck still. She patted her pockets for her phone, jabbing 999 to report the fire, stuttering as she explained where she was. With the fire engine on its way, she began to pace, wondering what the hell to do. Where were the campsite extinguishers? Think, Wanda, think. But she couldn’t and all she wanted to do was get away: if she saw the flames she’d be frozen with fear and flashbacks. So she ran, heaving gulps of the black air, not knowing where she was going exactly, just trying to outrun the thudding in her chest. Who should she go to? It had to be Blod’s, she’d know what to do, so she got to the shop and went down the alley and bashed at the door at the back, shouting her name over and over.

  ‘What is it?’ Blod said, reaching out to her, as A
nnie and then Lew appeared by her side, their faces etched with worry.

  ‘Fire! It’s fire. In the field. I …’ Her mouth dried up and the three of them shot her yes/no questions.

  ‘Have you called the fire brigade?’ She nodded to Annie, struggling for breath. Her mind threw up an image of the charred, still-smoking black mountain the day after the fire.

  ‘Is it up by you?’ She nodded at Blod, still panting. Every day being reminded of losing Dad – their home while the farmhouse was rebuilt had been a damp static caravan on the site because Mam couldn’t bear leaving the land where her beloved had died.

  ‘Have you seen any kids?’ She shook her head at Lew, her eyes wet with tears. Carys’s education had gone to pot after the fire, she’d never fulfilled her potential.

  Blod pulled her inside as Lew grabbed his jacket. She heard him murmur something to Annie about a grass fire in the village last night.

  ‘Looks like the season’s started,’ he said with anger. ‘And they call it fun.’

  ‘Bloody kids,’ Annie said. ‘Has no one told them what happened last time? I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Keep her here, Blod,’ Lew said, his eyes boring into Wanda’s, full of concern.

  ‘Will do. Take care, the pair of you.’

  Then they were gone and Wanda was collapsing into Blod’s arms. A siren was wailing in the distance and she was bracing herself, burrowing into Blod, and as it approached and got louder and louder, she clamped her hands over her ears and drowned it out with her own howl.

  7

  Annie sank back into the warm bubbles of Blod’s avocado bath and groaned.

  She was completely spent from a rollercoaster of a day.

  From sunrise to sunset, she’d been on what she called her ‘social services’ rounds: the bread and butter of lonely old ladies and gents who lived for her visits. Her role was as much to brighten their day as it was weeding borders and forking compost over their vegetable patches. The kindest of souls they were, offering tea until her bladder threatened to burst, in return for a pair of listening ears and, more often than not, hands to help with add-on apologetic requests to lift a piece of furniture or take a bag to the charity shop. Their struggles were many and could be pitifully small, things which others didn’t even think about: Enid Stokes depended on Annie to open a too-tight jar and Cyril Woods needed her eyes to read the small print on a bill. Stoic in spite of feeling bewildered, invisible or a burden on their families, they saw her as a connection to the outside world.

  She’d been revived by a visit to see Teg, who gave her the full bum wiggle of excitement when she arrived. But Bonnie at The Hound Hotel had had some news. Annie’s stomach pitched, thinking about it again. Teg had refused to go with a new dog walker, a man, which was no surprise – it was a learned response and had taken Annie back to the scene which had been the last straw with Dean. She’d never forget it, how he’d taken his anger out on her poor dog. The pressure she felt about failing Teg, by not providing her with a safe home, squeezed her temples.

  Annie exhaled long and slowly, trying to let it all go. She shut her eyes, only to see Wanda’s panic-stricken white face from last night. It had turned out to be a small grass fire, apparently started by kids, and had been out before Annie and Lew had got there. If Annie thought she carried the torment of the campsite blaze from fifteen years ago, Wanda was clearly buckling under it.

  ‘That girl needs help,’ Blod had said to Annie and Lew over brandy after Wanda had been picked up by Carys.

  ‘I wish she’d let us,’ Annie said as Lew quickly drained his glass and left. He’d been quiet; they’d all been hit by Wanda’s reaction and Annie felt powerless. Warned off by Lew after Wanda’s cold reception, Annie hadn’t gone back to the campsite to continue the tidy-up because she didn’t want to upset her.

  Even though she’d soaked herself wrinkly, there was still a thorn stuck in her finger and she applied a few drops of her own homemade lavender oil onto a plaster to draw it out overnight. Then she got dressed and found the envelope she’d picked up from the doormat at her last job. The £7.50 inside would get fish and chips for her and Blod. It was a bittersweet thing, doing Mrs Jenkins’s garden. Annie had turned her square of nettles on a down-at-heel estate, far away from the chocolate-box cottages photographed by tourists, into a beautiful patch of lavender, agapanthus, yellow daisy-like rudbeckia, leafy sedums and aquilegia which attracted bees and butterflies in the summer. Yet she never knew if Mrs Jenkins took any pleasure in it: she never saw her to speak to. It was said she suffered from nerves, but Annie understood how life was here and always left Mrs Jenkins’s carrying her bags full of clinking bottles to recycle. Still, at least there was Pastor Pete to keep an eye on her and he understood too. A former drug addict with a couple of stretches inside, he’d been pals with Ryan, but after nearly overdosing, he’d got clean and done a theology degree before becoming their minister. The old scars were there: his skull and crossbones tattoo peered over his dog collar, but he said, for him, it was a reminder of how far he’d come and it gave him insight and empathy.

  All in all, it had been a difficult day. And it was still all over Annie’s face when she came downstairs.

  ‘You look like you’ve swallowed a mule!’ Blod said at the cleared table in the corner of her cosy lamp-lit lounge.

  ‘I could eat a horse too, I’m starving!’ Annie said, seeing a letter propped up against the carriage clock on the fireplace. ‘Is that for me?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  The thick envelope was official and she knew straight away it was from Dean’s solicitor. With trembling fingers, she slit the envelope open and read then re-read its contents, in shock.

  ‘He’s accusing me of unreasonable behaviour!’ she spat, handing it over to Blod. ‘The gall of him! Look, it says “lack of intimacy”, when I was ever the dutiful wife, “spending too much time out of the house” when I was working, and “verbal abuse”, but that happened once. Once! And he deserved it.’

  ‘It’s just a process, Annie, that’s all,’ Blod soothed, over the click of her knitting needles.

  ‘It’s a stain on me! Why he has to do this, why we can’t just sell the house and then divorce later, I don’t know.’

  ‘Because he wants to punish you. For leaving him.’

  ‘And I’m supposed to sign up to these lies?’ She slammed her palm down on the table.

  ‘It’ll be done then, at least. You’ll be a free woman.’

  Blod was right. But it hurt like hell. There was a dull thud of paws landing and tabby cat Shirley sat quite still, watching, as if she was on the jury. Her tortoiseshell brother Bassey joined her, jumping up on the table, but he stalked towards Blod for a stroke. ‘You cheeky things,’ Blod whispered at her pets.

  Annie felt a wave of surrender crashing over her. This was Blod’s home; she shouldn’t be here in her space, filling up Blod’s narrow terrace with tools and boots. She needed to agree to Dean’s demands to get this over and done with. But on one condition – that the house went on the market straight away so she could get herself and Teg a roof of their own. She was so very tired, but she had to find the strength of character to change her way of thinking that she was giving in to him when really he was speeding up her liberty.

  ‘All right,’ she said, twisting her hands, ‘I’ll sign it.’

  ‘I know you’re hurting, but remember there’s always someone worse off than you.’

  She smiled at Blod, so grateful for her insight. Yes, in spite of everything, she did feel blessed to have her in her life.

  ‘Thanks, Blod. You’ve no idea what you’ve done for me.’

  ‘Get away with you!’ Blod said, heading to the drawer for cutlery.

  Annie was just on her way to the door when there was a knock. She opened up to find Lew stood on the step with a steaming parcel smelling of salt and vinegar in his arms
.

  ‘Hungry?’ he asked with a grin.

  ‘Lew! You angel!’ Blod said, bustling round him, taking his coat and the food and gathering plates and ketchup.

  ‘Well, we’ve hardly had a chance to catch up, have we?’ Lew said. ‘Our cuppa was interrupted last night, so I thought I’d try again.’

  ‘There’s lovely!’ Blod said, beaming at the surprise, shooing the cats and getting everyone up to the table.

  ‘And … well, I’ve been thinking,’ Lew said, heavily, playing with his fork. ‘I think you were right, Annie. Wanda needs our help. How she was last night – I mean, I know she can be dramatic, but that was something else. Like, she looked haunted. She can’t get that campsite ready by herself. We’ve got two days and I reckon we could do it. It’s the right thing to do.’

  A weight lifted off Annie’s shoulders. There was so much crap around, it was a tonic to be able to come together and do some good. It might pave the way for reconciliation and rehabilitation too – she’d seen the way Lew had looked at Wanda when she’d turned up terrified yesterday. If you cared about someone then you could reverse the estrangement.

  ‘I’m so happy you’re up for it,’ she said. ‘And I don’t think she’ll push us away this time. I don’t suppose she has the strength.’

  ‘I checked on her this morning,’ Blod said, giving a little shake of her head. ‘Not good. Wan-looking.’

  ‘So how shall we play it then?’ Annie asked as she dished out the delicious fortifying spoils.

  Blod speared a chip and winked. ‘I’ll spread the word after we’ve had this.’

  Within the hour, Annie knew, Gobaith would be answering the call to arms.

  8

  It’s certainly get-away-from-it-all territory – we were the only campers here!

  The MacDonald family, Hampshire

  Campsite Visitors’ Book