Читать книгу William’s Progress - Matt Rudd - Страница 52

And so, two days late, the first Walker family holiday begins. It will be the first of many. Over the next two decades at least, we will explore the world together. We will drive across Europe in campervans, we will sail narrow boats across England, we will explore exotic cultures in an educational and adventurous way. And we are starting with Devon. If we get that far. We woke at 6 a.m., a lie-in, and I suggested our ETDIAAHP (estimated time of departure if at all humanly possible) should be a very conservative 10 a.m. We left at 1 p.m., which isn’t bad when you consider that we had to take the entire house, the whole of Waitrose and a large section of Halfords with us, and that we’d only had five days to pack.

Twenty minutes in, against all odds, Jacob fell asleep. For the first time in seven weeks, Isabel and I had a conversation. It was leisurely. It had no sense of urgency about it. It was trivial and no child’s life depended on it.

‘Nice coffee,’ I said.

‘Do I get points for bringing it, dearest?’

‘Yes and no. Which would you like first?’

‘I may have to kill you, but purely out of interest I’ll start with the yes.’

‘Yes, because you’ve used proper milk, not devil’s spawn goat’s milk, and there’s enough sugar for once and we won’t have to spend £972 on crap motorway service station coffee.’

‘Right. And the no?’

‘No, because bringing a flask on a car journey is the beginning of the end. Only middle-aged people do that. Have you got some travel sweets in the glove box, too? Oh my God, you have. I rest my case.’

‘I hate to tell you this, but you’re already middle-aged, sweetheart. You planned the route three days ago.’

‘I didn’t.’

‘You did. You phoned Johnson and had a conversation with him about it. Only middle-aged people can spend more than twenty minutes discussing whether the M4/M5 is quicker than the A303.’

‘Well, Johnson was talking rubbish. Everyone knows the M4/M5 is best if there aren’t roadworks.’

‘I love it.’

‘Love what?’

‘Being middle-aged.’

‘Really?’ For a minute, I’d thought she was having me on, but she wasn’t.

‘Yes. We’re settling. We know what we’re doing. We know where we’re going.’

‘Do we?’

‘Yes. Apart from this whole parenting thing…which I think we’re doing all right at, don’t you?’

‘Well, you are. You’ve been brilliant.’

‘You’re doing all right as well. I think we make quite a good middle-aged couple, all things considered. And here we are, going on a lovely holiday as a family with our beautiful sleeping boy.’

She paused, smiling, and looked out the window. I smiled, too, because perhaps everything was going pretty well. And there was no denying it: we were going on holiday. A family holiday. It might even be fun.

Except then Jacob woke up and needed a feed. The fourteen miles to the next service station were the longest fourteen miles of my life. It’s bad enough listening to babies crying in general, but when it’s your baby, it has an extra piercing quality. It cuts straight into the very centre of your brain. It is almost impossible to do anything but deal with that noise. This is very clever: Mother Nature’s way of ensuring the offspring isn’t left abandoned in its hour of need. Except Mother Nature didn’t take into account the fact that we were going on holiday to Devon in the driving rain of bleak midwinter with a seven-week-old child. And that I might need to be able to concentrate on driving.

…and breathe.