Tom All Alone (12)

In August, dad borrowed a car from one of his mates at the pub for their two weeks' holiday. Next to Christmas, it was Tom's most exciting time of the year.

"Are we going to Pagham again, mum?"

"No, love. We're going somewhere different this year. We're going to Cornwall."

"Where's that?"

"It's a long way away."

"More than Pagham?"

"Much more."

She took a road map from the sideboard drawer and showed him.

"There's where we live. There's Pagham. And there's Cornwall..." He followed her finger as it traced a red, squiggly line down to the foot of the country. "All the way down there."

"Wow!"

He was excited at the thought of travelling all that distance.

"Will we be in a caravan again?"

"Yes, love. We're borrowing Mr Gibney's caravan at the shop. He's letting us use it."

"Are there beaches in Cornwall?"

"There's lots of beaches. We can go to a different beach every day."

Nan wasn't going, so she was looking after Bobby. Tom had wanted to take him with them.

"Bobby wouldn't like it, love," mum had said. "Cats don't like being moved to different places. He'll be happier here with nan. He'll have his own little holiday, too, without you fussing him all the time."

"I'll miss him."

"But you'll see him when you get back. It's only a couple of weeks."

 

It was still dark on the the Saturday morning when they left - Tom and Russell in the back with a pile of comics, dad behind the wheel, mum next to him with the maps.

As they drove up towards the common, Tom could see some early lights glowing behind the curtains in upstairs windows. There were only a few other cars on the road and no people about. He'd never seen it like this before - the dark and empty streets, in a car. A light drizzle had begun to fall, so dad switched on the wipers, which squeaked to and fro across the screen. The lights of the road sparkled like stars in the rain-drops on the windows.

They drove through built-up areas where some of the shops were already open - bakeries, or newsagents. A few early customers skulked under hats or umbrellas. Dad stopped at one of the paper shops and bought a Daily Mirror and some sweets and cigarettes, and a packet of Rolos each for the boys. His hair was damp and the smell of rain was on him.

"Typical for us," he said, clicking his tongue as he shut the door. He lit a cigarette from the fresh packet, then started the engine and they were off again, swishing along the now dimly-daylit streets. After a few more miles, the road got bigger and wider. They began to pick up speed and overtake some slower cars and lorries. At one point, mum pointed over to the left.

"Look, boys."

In the distance, sticking up above everything else on the horizon, was the outline of a strange rocket-shaped building.

"What is it?"

"It's the pagoda at Kew Gardens."

"What's a pagoda?" Tom asked.

"It's a special building like they have in China. We'll go there one day and see it, Tom."

He was fascinated by the peculiar shape of it.

"Can you go inside it?"

"You used to be able to."

"What's inside?"

"Nothing, apart from the staircase. It's just for show, really."

Tom's imagination was fired by it now. That strange-looking building, all empty.

"Can we go and see it when we come back from holiday?"

"We'll see."

Dad lit another cigarette, flicking the ash out of the small triangular window on his door. Russell was reading a book. Tom sat with his eyes level with the bottom of the window on his side, watching the scenery rush by - every second taking them closer to this place called Cornwall and further from home.

"What's this car called, dad?"

"It's an Austin A40, son. Do you like it?"

"Yes. Can we get a car like it?"

"We haven't got enough money to buy a car, son."

"How much are they?"

"Lots of money."

Tom thought it would be wonderful if they had a car. Like uncle Len and uncle George, and Jack at the pub and Mr Gibney at the shop, whose caravan they were borrowing. His cousins Keith and Barry used to tell Tom about going out for long drives with their dad in the car. Going down to Margate or Brighton for the day. Uncle George had a red car called a Zephyr. It was bigger than this one. It had four doors and this one only had two. But one like this would do. He wondered why other people, like uncle George, could afford them but they couldn't.

"Are we nearly in Cornwall yet?"

Mum laughed. "No, love. We've got a long way to go yet. We're only just out of London. Soon be in the countryside."

 

Gradually the built-up areas gave way to longer stretches of downs and fields. The rain had cleared and a tepid sun was poking through the thinning clouds. In the distance, Tom could see church spires, clusters of small cottages, cows grazing. They went through a small town and on the other side of it the sun finally came out fully, and dad pulled into a lay-by under some trees. He switched off the engine and opened his door, and they could begin to feel the heat of the day rising in the air.

"Time to stretch our legs and have a cuppa," he said, getting out.

Mum had a bag on the floor between her feet. She lifted a flask out and some plastic cups and poured the teas for them all. It was hot and sweet and had a funny taste. But Tom liked it because it tasted like holiday - that's how he thought of it.

Dad got back in and spread the map along the dashboard, and he and mum talked about different roads to take. Tom heard them mention some names. Salisbury. Exeter. Somewhere called Dark Moor, which sounded interesting. He liked that name. Once they had it all sorted and had finished their teas, mum went off behind a hedge to 'pay a penny'. Tom got out, too, and went behind a tree, chatting to himself the while.

"I'm having a wee... on the tree... I'm having a wee... on the tree..."

When he got back, mum wiped his hands over with a damp flannel she'd packed in the bag.

"I had a wee on the tree..." he said to her, and she laughed.

"Maybe it'll help the tree to grow."

 

They were soon seeing bigger hills coming up, folding off into a blue-looking distance. They passed Stonehenge, which Tom had never seen before - the great grey stones, like gigantic Lego bricks stacked up.

"Who built it?" he asked.

"Stone Age men did," Russell said.

"Who were they?"

"Men who lived thousands of years ago."

Tom tried to grasp that.

"Thousands of years?"

"Yes. You know what a hundred years means, don't you."

Tom could count to a hundred, but that was as far as he'd ever got.

"Back in Victorian times?"

"Right. So a thousand years is ten times a hundred years. And Stonehenge was built about five thousand years ago. So fifty times a hundred years."

These numbers were getting harder to make sense of.

"Is that when the dinosaurs were around?"

"No. The dinosaurs were around millions of years ago."

"What does that mean?"

"If a thousand years is ten times a hundred years, a million years is a thousand times a thousand years. Or ten-thousand times a hundred years. And the dinosaurs were around hundreds of millions of years ago."

Tom was completely lost now.

Mum turned her head to look at him.

"You'll soon be learning all those big numbers in school, love, so don't worry. It's just very, very old."

Tom stared across the plain at it as they passed.

"Was it someone's house?"

"No," said Russell. "It was a temple."

"What's a temple?"

"Like a church."

"But where's the steeple?"

Mum turned again.

"They didn't have steeples in those days, love."

She reached through the gap with a bag.

"Do you want a sweetie?"

He took a strawberry one and sucked on it as they drove on. He had so many questions in his head now. All these new things he was seeing.

 

They started driving on some quieter roads, through other small towns with cottages that looked like they were made with big stones, like Stonehenge was, instead of bricks like their house. They went through the place called Exeter, which was more like London with all the buildings and busy streets. Then after a while the landscape changed again, and they were driving across a strange-looking place with lots of high hills. It was criss-crossed with stone walls, and Tom could see sheep scattered around and patches of purple and yellow in the grass. The hills looked dark and brooding, with piles of stones over them and on top of them. They made him think of the drawings he'd seen in books of castles on mountains.

"This is Dartmoor," said mum. "It's beautiful, isn't it."

"Dark Moor."

"Not Dark... Dart. Dartmoor."

"Like dad's darts?"

"That's right, son," said dad.

"Why's it called Dartmoor?"

"Because it's a moor," mum said. "And a river called the Dart runs through it."

Tom thought of a river full of darts. The Thames looked like that, he thought, when the sun was glinting on it. Lots of darts flashing by in the water. He was fascinated again by it all - those huge hills looming up ahead, the great stones on top. It looked a bit creepy.

"There's a big prison on Dartmoor," dad said. "It's where they lock up all the bad men."

"Like robbers and burglars?"

"Worse than that, even. Really bad men."

It suddenly seemed even more sinister to Tom. He hoped they would soon be out of there again. But then they went over the top of a hill and it seemed brighter, and the sunlight was sparkling on water down in a valley. The darts in the river, he thought. Soon, they came to a lay-by close to a large white house, all on its own on the side of the hill. Tom saw a sign outside it.

The Warren House Inn.

"Time for bit of lunch," said dad, and he pulled into the lay-by.

Mum handed out cheese and pickle sandwiches while dad went over to the pub. He came back with a tray of drinks - Pepsi Colas for the boys and glasses of shandy for himself and mum. They had a packet of Golden Wonder crisps each, too. The sun was hot now, so they sat with the doors open.

"This is glorious," mum said. "Imagine living here in all this space and peace."

Apart from an occasional car passing on the road, all they could hear were birds singing, grasshoppers chirruping, flies buzzing. The pub was the only building they could see, whichever way they looked.

"How much further have we got to go?" Tom asked.

Dad looked at the map. "We've broken the back of it now. Another couple of hours. Less than that."

He showed the boys the map and pointed to a name.

"St Austell. That's where we're going."

They looked at it. It looked like it was quite close to the sea.

"Can we go to the beach later?"

"We'll see," dad said, folding the map again. "Let's get there first."

They finished their lunch and dad took the tray back.

Then they were off again.

 

By mid-afternoon, they were driving down towards St Austell.

"Nearly there now," said mum.

In the distance, they could see lots of strange pointed hills.

"What are those?" Tom asked.

"I don't know," said mum. "They look almost like pyramids, like they have in Egypt."

Tom had seen pictures of the Egyptian pyramids. These looked almost like them, except they were white. Like with the pagoda and Stonehenge and the rocky hills on Dartmoor, he was fixated by them. He'd never seen so many new things like this in one day - all these peculiar places, holding their own kind of mystery.

They drove into the town and along its narrow streets, past its small shops, through its bustling Saturday afternoon crowds. Tom saw some tractors driving along, which he never saw in London. The sun was high and bright now, and was glinting off the windows and passing cars. Everything looked so busy and full of colour. Dad had his window down and there was a fresh smell to the air coming into the car.

"What a lovely town," said mum. "When we're settled, we'll come in and get something for dinner tonight."

"What are we having for dinner?" Tom asked.

"What would you like?"

"Can we have fish and chips?"

She turned and flashed Tom a smile.

"Why not? We're on holiday now."

Then they were through the other side and driving along a winding road that went up and over between a few scattered shops and cottages. Tom looked back and saw those white pyramids again, looming on the horizon.

He was about to ask how much more they had to drive when dad signalled right and pulled into an entryway between the hedgerows. There was a sign saying Trelower Camping Site. And there were the caravans, ranged in a small field beside a farmhouse, like painted eggs laid sideways on wheels. A woman came out as they approached, smiling and waving at them. Two black and white dogs were jumping and barking at her side.

"Here we are," dad said. "Home for the next two weeks."

(continued)