I’m only joking. Half-joking, maybe. Dad’s one of those people—sends you mad with frustration, then comes through just when you weren’t expecting it. When I was seventeen, I asked him over and over to teach me to drive. He put it off…forgot…said I was too young….Then one day, when I’d given up hope, he announced, “Right, Kitty-Kate, it’s driving day.” We spent all day in the car and he was the most kind, patient teacher you could imagine.
I mean, I still failed. Turns out Dad’s got no idea how to teach driving; in fact, the examiner stopped the test halfway because apparently I was “unsafe.” (He was particularly unimpressed by Dad’s advice: Always accelerate toward changing traffic lights, in case you can nip through.) But, anyway, the thought was there, and I’ll always remember that day.
That was Dad’s gentler, more serious side. He doesn’t always show it, but underneath the swagger and the twinkles and the flirting he’s as soft as butter. You just have to watch him at lambing. He looks after all the orphan lambs as tenderly as though they were his real babies. Or take the time I had a bad fever when I was eleven. Dad got so worried, he took my temperature about thirty times in an hour. (At last he asked Rick Farrow, the vet, to stop in and have a look at me. He said he trusted Rick over any doctor, any day. Which was fine until the story got out at school. I mean, the vet.)
I still remember Mum. Kind of. I have dim splashes of memory like an unfinished watercolor. I remember arms around me and a soft voice in my ear. Her “going out” shoes—she only had the one pair, in black patent with sensible heels. I remember her leading me around the fields on my pony, clucking fondly to both of us. Brushing my hair after bath time, in front of the telly. I still feel a sad, Mum-shaped hole in my life when I allow myself…but that’s not often. It would feel disloyal to Dad, somehow. As I’ve got older, I’ve realized how hard it must have been for him, all those years, bringing me up alone. But he never let me realize it, not once. Everything was fun, an adventure for the pair of us.
I have a memory of him when I was six, the year after Mum died: Dad sitting at the kitchen table, peering at the Littlewoods catalog, his brow furrowed, trying to pick out clothes for me. Wanting so badly to get it right. He can make you weep, he’s so kind. And then he can make you weep because he sold your precious matching bedroom-furniture set with no warning to a guy from Bruton who gave him a really good deal. (I was fifteen. And what I still don’t get is, how did the guy from Bruton even know about my bedroom furniture?)
Anyway, that’s Dad. He’s not exactly what he seems. Then, the minute you’ve worked that out, he is exactly what he seems. And I think Biddy understands that. It’s why they work as a couple. I used to watch all those other women Dad had, and even when I was a child I could tell they didn’t quite get Dad. They could only see charismatic, charming, rogue-ish Mick, with his moneymaking schemes. Standing rounds at the pub, telling funny stories. That’s what appealed to them, so he played up that side. But Biddy isn’t about charisma; she’s about connection. She talks directly. She doesn’t mess around or flirt. I sometimes see them talking quietly together, and I can tell that Dad relies on her, more and more.
She’s careful and discreet, though, Biddy. She doesn’t ever get between me and Dad. She knows how close the two of us were, all those years together, and she’s all about standing back. Never venturing an opinion. Never offering unsolicited advice. Nor have I ever asked her for advice.
Maybe I should.
“Crisp, Kitty-Kate?” Dad has followed me outside into the winter sunshine with a bowl of crisps. His graying, curly hair is still rumpled from doing his morning jobs outside, and his skin is as weatherbeaten as ever, his blue eyes shining like sapphire chips.
“I was just saying to Katie, it’s lovely to have her home,” says Biddy. “Isn’t it?”
“Certainly is,” replies Dad, and he raises his glass toward me. I raise my own and try to smile—but it doesn’t come easily. I can’t meet Dad’s eye without seeing the little splinters of sadness among the twinkles. So I gulp my drink, waiting for the moment to pass.
If you saw us from the outside, you’d have no idea. You’d think we were a father and daughter reuniting happily on Christmas Eve. You’d never sense the waves of hurt and guilt bouncing invisibly between us.
The internship in Birmingham never caused a problem. Dad understood that it was all I could get; he knew I didn’t want to settle in Birmingham; he didn’t worry. The internship in London, he rationalized as well. I was “just starting out” and no wonder I had to get some experience.
But then I took the job at Cooper Clemmow, and something froze. I remember breaking the news to him and Biddy, right here. Oh, he did all the right things—hugged me and said, “Well done.” We talked about visits and weekends, and Biddy made a celebratory cake. But all the time I could see the stricken look in his face.
We haven’t really been right with each other since then. And certainly not since the last time he came up to London, almost a year ago now, with Biddy. God, it was a disaster. Something went wrong with the tube and we were late for the show I’d booked. A group of young guys jostled Dad, and I think—not that he’d ever admit it—he was scared. He told me in no uncertain terms what he thought of London. I was so tired and disappointed, I burst into tears and said…some stuff I didn’t mean.
Since then, we’ve danced warily around each other. Dad hasn’t suggested visiting again. I haven’t asked him to. We don’t talk a lot about my life in London, and when we do, I’m careful to stay upbeat. I never mention my problems. I’ve never even shown him where I live. I couldn’t let him see my flat and my tiny room and all my stuff slung in a grotty hammock. He just wouldn’t understand.
Because here’s the other thing about Dad; here’s the flip side of us being so close for so long: He feels everything on my behalf, almost too keenly. He can overreact. He can make me feel worse about a situation, not better. He rails at the world when it goes wrong for me, can’t let things go.
He never forgave that guy Sean who broke my heart in the sixth form. He still scowls if I mention the saddlery. (I did a summer job there, and I thought they underpaid me. Only by a tiny amount, but that was it as far as Dad was concerned. He’s boycotted them ever since.) And I know he reacts like that because he loves me. But sometimes it’s hard to bear his disappointment at life as well as my own.
The first time I had a run-in with a colleague at work, when I was starting out in Birmingham, I told Dad about it. Well, that did it. He mentioned it every time we spoke, for about six months. He told me to complain to HR…suggested I wasn’t standing up for myself enough….He basically wanted to hear that the colleague had been punished. Even after I’d told him again and again that it was all fixed and I wanted to move on and could we please not discuss it anymore? As I say, I know he was only showing he cared—but still, it was draining.
So the next time I had an issue, I quietly sorted it out for myself and said nothing. Easier for me, easier for Dad. It’s easier for him if he doesn’t know I’ve traded his beloved Somerset for a hard, struggling existence, if he believes I’m leading what he calls “the high life in London.” It’s easier for me if I don’t have to expose every detail of my existence to his uncomprehending, anxious gaze.
And, yes, it gives me heartache. We were so close, the Dad-and-Katie team. I never kept anything from him, not my first period, not my first kiss. Now I’m constantly careful. The only way I can rationalize it is that I will be honest with him, when I can tell him things that will make him happy. When I’m more secure, less defensive.
Just not yet.
“I was remembering Father Christmas’s Grotto,” I say, taking a crisp, trying to lighten things. “Remember the fistfight that broke out?”
“Those wretched children.” Dad shakes his head indignantly. “There was nothing wrong with those balloons.”
“There was!” I burst into laughter. “They were duds and you knew it! And as for the Christmas stockings…”
I turn to Biddy. “You should have seen them. They fell apart in the children’s hands.”
Dad has the grace to look a bit shamefaced, and I can’t help laughing again. This is the territory we do best on, Dad and me. The past.
“So, has Biddy told you?” Dad spreads his arms out, as though to indicate the fields in front of us.
“Told me what?”
“No, I haven’t,” says Biddy. “I was waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” I look from one to the other. “What’s up?”
“Glamping,” says Dad with a flourish.
“Glamping? What do you mean, glamping?”
“It’s where it’s at, love. Saw it in the papers. All the celebs are at it. We’ve got the land, we’ve got the time….”
“We’re serious,” says Biddy earnestly. “We want to open a glamping site here. What do you think?”
I don’t know what I think. I mean…glamping?
“Could be a money-spinner,” says Dad, and I feel a familiar trickle of alarm. I thought Biddy had calmed him down. I thought the days of Dad’s crazy schemes were over. The last I heard, he was going to start getting odd jobs in the neighborhood and build up a handyman business to supplement the farm income. Which is a sensible idea.
“Dad, opening a glamping site is a massive deal.” I try not to sound as negative as I feel. “It needs investment, knowledge…I mean, you don’t just wake up one morning and say, Let’s do glamping. For a start, don’t you need permission?”
“Got it!” says Dad triumphantly. “At least, as near as damn it. It’s this farm diversification business, isn’t it? Bring business to the area. The council’s all for it.”
“You’ve spoken to the council?” I’m taken aback. This is more serious than I realized.
“I did,” says Biddy. Her dark eyes are shining. “I’ve had an inheritance, love.”
“Oh, wow,” I say in surprise. “I didn’t know.”
“It’s not huge, but it’s enough. And I really think we could do this, Katie. We’ve got the land, and it’s crying out for some use. I think we’d enjoy it. I don’t suppose…” She hesitates. “No. Of course not.”
“What?”
“Well.” Biddy glances at Dad.
“We wondered—do you want to come in on the business with us?” says Dad with an awkward laugh. “Be a partner?”
“What?” I goggle at him. “But…how can I come in on the business? I’m up in London—”
I break off and look away. I practically can’t say “London” around Dad without wincing.
“We know!” says Biddy. “We’re so proud of you, love, with your job and your amazing life. Aren’t we, Mick?”
Biddy is a stalwart supporter of my London life, despite the fact she’s about as keen on cities as Dad is. But I wish she wouldn’t try to prompt him like that.
“Of course we are,” mutters Dad.
“But we thought, if you did fancy a change…” Biddy continues. “Or in your spare time…or weekends? You’re so bright and clever, Katie….”
They’re serious. They want me to come in on the business with them. Oh God. I love Biddy. I love Dad. But that’s a huge responsibility.
“I can’t be a partner.” I shove my hands through my hair, avoiding their eyes. “I’m sorry. Life in London is so busy; I just don’t have time….”
I can see Biddy forcing a smile through her disappointment.
“Of course,” she says. “Of course you don’t. You’ve done so well, Katie. Have you had your bedroom redecorated yet?”
I feel another massive twinge of guilt and take a sip of punch, playing for time. I came up with the redecorating story when Dad and Biddy came to visit. (That way, we didn’t need to go near the flat and I could take them out to Jamie’s Italian.) Then I told them it was stalled. Then I told them it was on again.
“It’s on the way!” I smile brightly. “Just need to get the color scheme right.”
“Color scheme,” echoes Dad, with a wry smile at Biddy. “You hear that, Biddy?”
Our farmhouse has never had a color scheme in its life. We’ve got ancient furniture that’s been there for hundreds of years (well, maybe a hundred years) and walls that have been the same mustard or salmon pink since I was a child. What the house really needs, I suppose, is someone to gut it, knock down some walls, come in with a Farrow & Ball chart, and make the most of the view.
Although, actually, the thought of changing a single detail makes me feel all hot and bothered.
“Anyway, it was just a thought,” says Biddy brightly.
“Of course you haven’t got time, Kitty-Kate,” says Dad, his tone a little wistful. “It’s understandable.”
He’s such a familiar sight, standing there in the Somerset sunshine, with his wrinkles and his heavy, stained jersey and his work boots covered in mud. All my life, Dad’s been there. Pottering around the house, in the fields, taking me to the pub and feeding me crisps. Trying to make our millions. Not just for him, for me too.
“Look.” I exhale. “I didn’t mean I can’t help. Maybe with the marketing stuff or something?”
“There!” Biddy’s face lights up in delight. “I knew Katie would help! Anything you can do, love. You know about these things. Give us some advice.”
“OK, so what exactly are you going to do?” I gesture around the land. “Take me through the whole plan.”
“Buy some tents,” says Dad promptly. “Dave Yarnett’s got a good line in them. Gave me the idea in the first place. He’ll throw in sleeping bags too.”
“No.” I shake my head firmly. “Not tents. Yurts.”
“You what?” Dad looks baffled.
“Yurts. Yurts. Have you never heard of yurts?”
“Sounds like an illness of the you-know-wheres,” says Dad, twinkling. “Doctor, Doctor, I’ve got the yurts.” He laughs uproariously at his own joke, and Biddy shoots him a reproving glance.
“I’ve heard of them,” she says. “It’s Moroccan tents, isn’t it?”
“I think they’re Mongolian. Anyway, that’s what everyone glamps in. Yurts, or retro caravans, or shepherd’s huts…something different.”
“Well, how much are they?” Dad looks unenthusiastic. “Because Dave’s doing me a very good deal—”
“Dad!” I cry, exasperated. “No one will come and glamp in cut-price tents from Dave Yarnett! Whereas if you bought some yurts, made them look nice, put up some bunting, cleared up the yard…”
I survey the landscape with a new eye. I mean, the view is spectacular. The land stretches away from us, green and lush, the grass rippling in the breeze. I can see, in the distance, the sun glinting on our little lake. It’s called Fisher’s Lake, and we used to row on it. We could buy a new rowing boat. Kids would love it. Maybe a rope swing. We could have fire pits…barbecues…an outdoor pizza oven, maybe….
I can see the potential. I can actually see the potential.
“Well, I’ve already told Dave I’m ordering ten tents,” says Dad, and I feel a spike of frustration, which somehow I squash down.
“Fine.” I down my drink and force a smile. “Do it your way.”
—
It’s not till later that afternoon that the subject comes up again. Biddy’s preparing potatoes for tomorrow and I’m icing the gingerbread men she made this morning. We’ll put them on the Christmas tree later. I’m utterly engrossed, piping tiny smiles and bow ties and buttons, while Christmas hits play through the stereo. The table is Formica-topped, and the chairs are dark green painted wood with dated oak-leaf cushions. Above us is hanging the blue glittery decoration that we’ve hung up every year since I was ten and saw it for sale in a garage. It couldn’t be less Livingetc, but I don’t care. I feel warm and snug and homey.
“Katie,” says Biddy suddenly, in a low voice, and I look up in surprise. “Please, love. You know what your dad’s like. He’ll buy these wretched tents and open up and it’ll be a disaster….” She puts her potato peeler down. “But I
want this to work. I think it can work. We’ve got the money to invest; now’s the time….”
Her cheeks are faintly pink and she has a determined look about her that I don’t often see.
“I agree.” I put down my icing bag. “It’s an amazing site, and there’s definitely demand. But you need to do it right. And maybe I don’t have time to be a partner, but I still want to help….” I shake my head. “But I really don’t want to see you throw money away on cheap tents.”
“I know!” Biddy looks anguished. “I know! We don’t know what’s right, and your dad can be so obstinate….”
I meet eyes with her sympathetically. This is an understatement. My dad fixes onto a viewpoint—whether it’s the tube is full of terrorists or alpacas will make our fortune—and it’s practically impossible to budge him.
Then, to my surprise, I suddenly hear Demeter’s voice in my head: You need a bit of tenacity.
She’s right. What’s the point of being the only member of the family with experience in marketing and not speaking out? If I don’t at least try to talk Dad round, then I’m being feeble.
“OK,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Who are you going to talk to?” Dad comes in, holding the Radio Times, looking merry.
“You,” I say briskly. “Dad, you have to listen to me. If you’re going to open a glamping business, it has to be cool. It has to be…” I search for the right word. “Hip. Authentic. Not crappy tents from Dave Yarnett.”
“I’ve told Dave I’m buying them now.” Dad looks sulky.
“Well, un-tell him! Dad, if you buy those tents, you’re just throwing away money. You need to have the right image, or no one will come. I work with successful businesses, OK? I know how they operate.”
“You need to listen to Katie!” Biddy cries. “I knew we were getting it wrong! We’re buying yurts, Mick, and that’s the end of it. Tell us what else we need, Katie.”
She pulls out a notebook from the kitchen table drawer, and I see Glamping written on it in Biro.