Pass It On

So – I would very much like to meet the person who gave my son a red megaphone for his birthday. It was meant to be for the march in London but shortly afterwards he came down with flu and consequently he’s been so bored he’s taken to using in the house – all the time – and it’s annoying me and frightening the cats.

It’s lovely to have him home for a bit – and of course I love him, but all my freedom has gone out of the window, and now he isn’t so ill anymore, he’s at that stage where he’s just bored, and irritating. Also, I’m supposed to be getting ready to go to the island, and he’s making it hard, mooching around, generally being unhelpful

“I have to go the cottage – pick up some things to take to the island for Marnie. Why not come with me?”

It’s really nice outside. It would do him good. He has that pale face and flushed red cheeks thing, and he looks about five years younger than he really is – you know - the way they get when they’re sick

“No”

“Oh go on”

I could do with his help. There are gates to open and if he comes I can stay in the car while he does that – it would save time - besides, I’d like his company, and it’s a nice day. He hasn’t been outside for two days

“There are lambs in the park – they’re so sweet”

He gives me a look

“I am nineteen you know”

I am very tempted to say “well act like it then,” but I bite my lip. That would only make things worse.

It takes twenty minutes before he very reluctantly agrees to come, on condition that I drop him in town afterwards, so he can have a drink with a school friend – but just in case I should think he wants to go, he carries on making sure I know he disapproves

“Ten minutes there, ten minutes in the cottage and then ten minutes back . You promise? Where is it anyway?”

I tell him – it’s so near - but I don’t think he really believes me. He does get in the car though, and just as I knew he would, you can see that just being outside is cheering him up, making him feel better.

It is really only ten minutes away; we turn off into the park – it’s only been a week or so since I was last here, but the landscape has softened, even in that short time, it’s become greener – not just shoots and buds – there are leaves now, and they are that bright bright green when they first open. A sign at the big gates says they have 1553 lambs so far, with fifteen born today. We stop at the fancy little gatehouse thing where they make you pay rip off prices. I lean out of the window

“We’re going to the Pink House”

They wave me through. He looks slightly impressed – and then we go past the car park, where everyone has to leave their cars, past the big house, which is really quite spectacular, and then we stop while he gets out to open the gate into the private park. When he gets back in, we open both the car windows to let the sunshine blow through, it really couldn’t be prettier - and he starts smiling. He's been here before, long ago, but he doesn't remember any of it.

I have to drive really carefully, because the lambs are everywhere – all over the road – sometimes they leave it until the very last second before skittering away, kicking up their little wooly legs. They’re so comical. When I can, I glance sideways and I can see that his whole face has softened – the colour has come back into his cheeks, and he’s smiling the whole time. I tell him about the mad Earl and the coke and the helicopter and his dodgy friends, and the wolfhounds, to make him laugh. If it’d been me, at that age, I would’ve carried on the sulk for much longer, but I think boys are less complicated –or maybe he’s just a nicer person than I ever was.

The cottage is a dream at this time of year – it’s a world away from the winter bleakness – like another place altogether. Inside, the sun has managed to warm things up a little bit – it’s no longer icy cold, and some of the crap has been taken away. It’s still grimy, filthy even – little bits of rubble and brick dust cover the black leather sofa, but he can see past all of that. His eyes light up – get bigger and bigger with each new thing “Is that a Bafta? “ he picks it up, does a mock acceptance speech, then gently blows the dust off the lid of the grand piano, before lifting it and picking out a tune.

I take him all over - show him the room we always had when I was his age. I tell him about Doctor Who coming to stay and getting very drunk, confusing the little children. He laughs and his eyes shine and I can tell he is falling in love with this place. This is one of the things I enjoy most about having children – passing things on.

One more thing before we go back – I say “follow me” and lead him down the drive, across the tiny road to the stream. We crouch down on the grass and watch the shiny pebbles and the sparkling clear water – which really does babble - there’s something hypnotic about moving water. The lambs the other side of it stare at us with curiosity – they aren’t scared at all.

I say “we’d better be getting back if you want to get to the pub for five, and he turns to me, eyes sparkling like the water

“Do you think Marnie would let me stay here in the summer holidays?”

I say maybe – we’ll ask her. But I’m pretty sure I know what she’ll say. She’s the most generous person on earth and nothing would give her greater pleasure – passing all of this down one more generation – breathing new life into the old walls – all of that is such a cliché, but also it isn’t – it’s very serious.

I’m not sure which of us is in a better mood as we drive back into town.