The Oui Trip

By David O'Neill

It’s been a tough year for Bob and Joan Younghusband.
Bob’s been made redundant from his plumbing sales job selling loos and lock nuts, and just as they’re about to get away from it all, Joan loses her beloved father, too.
Deciding the sunny climes of the Med are just what they need, the Younghusbands head for France in their hired camper. But every dream has its price, and this one comes with Joan’s alcoholic stepmother who throws the ultimate spanner in the works.
Then there’s the shocking revelation when Bob and Joan stay with old friends that could rock their relationship to the core... and turn their dream trip into the holiday from hell.
Tailed by an inspector of the French Police Nationale and a Glaswegian gangster by the name of Stephan, Bob and Joan have to find a way out of their home-made, or camper-made, nightmare... or it won’t just be their plans for a relaxing break that go down the toilet.
Murder, mayhem, sex, gangsters and badly spoken French, this dark comedy has it all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David O'Neill
• Release date: Aug 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9780993266713

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Father

The job description of a coffin bearer is not an overly complicated one. It is a role made up of brief periods of activity followed by long gaps of idleness.

Once the coffin has been carried in to the chapel, there is nothing to occupy the bearers until the service is over, and coffin bearers, like any other people, get bored. Also, in this particularly grim profession, any chance of light relief is quickly taken advantage of, so when the bearers are away from public view, professionalism can take a small break.

On this particular morning, as grey cloud hung over the Parkside Municipal Crematorium in Glasgow, and rain soaked into its beautifully manicured lawns and flowerbeds, Strauss’s Blue Danube waltz permeated the air of the chapel at the funeral service of William Campbell Reid. As was about to be noted in his eulogy by his parish priest, William Reid was a stern man, adored by his wife Margaret and of course, his loving family. What had been diplomatically omitted from the eulogy were the mentioning by name of certain family members, specifically his daughter Joan Younghusband, née Reid, and especially his son-in-law Robert, although both were in attendance.

Out of view of grieving family and friends, in the vestibule outside the chapel, the four bearers who had so stoically bore the coffin to its final resting place, took turns in impersonating the expression of the miserable old git framed in a photograph that they had placed on top of the coffin. If any sight would have a brought a smile to the face of Robert Younghusband that day besides the death of his father-in-law, four gurning coffin bearers would have come pretty high on the list.

William Reid, father-in-law but on this day referred to as the deceased - itself another source of merriment to Robert - had never approved of his daughter’s choice of husband. Firstly Robert, or Bob as he was known by friends and colleagues, was not a Catholic. Secondly, and of equal importance, was that he was not a Scot, a crime never to be forgiven by Joan’s father. Thirdly, of slightly less importance but a source of disdain nonetheless, his son-in-law did not have a ‘man’s job’ as far as William Reid was concerned. Selling plumbing supplies was a ‘soft’ job. If Bob had actually fitted the said supplies, the old man would have at least respected him for having a trade. As it was, he had told his daughter that he thought his son-in-law always ‘talked shite’ so selling lavvies was the best job for him.

Appropriately, if somewhat ironically, Bob’s career had recently gone down the toilet when he had been made redundant. The situation had brought a rare smile to his father-in-law’s lips.

Today, however, Bob Younghusband had got the last laugh. He had got nothing but derision from his father-in-law in the four months since he had lost his job, and now the old man was as silent as his beautifully framed photograph, which had been placed at the head of the coffin. It beamed sourly at the mourners.

Joan Younghusband had been glancing at her husband out of the corner of her eye, and she inclined her head towards him. She whispered, ‘Will you stop smiling.’ It was not a question.

Bob bit his lip. It had been quite a while since he had laughed, and he was unaccustomed to having to stifle the sensation. ‘I thought I was being serene,’ he whispered back. ‘Sorry, love.’ He breathed deeply, calming the laughter, and realised he actually was feeling serene for the first time in months, a discomfiting and yet comforting sense of wellbeing. Not happiness exactly. Hope, perhaps. Now that the old man was dead, Bob felt he was getting back some control. It dawned on him, there in the chapel on that rainy Tuesday morning, that William Reid was no longer peering over his shoulder. There would be no more of his father-in-law’s derisory comments passed on by his wife. Joan didn’t do it on purpose of course; she had simply reported her father’s views without really thinking.

Bob looked at her, sitting beside him. He wondered how long it had been since she had really thought about him, about them both. She looked beautiful. She was a year younger than him and she still had a trim figure. Her fine shoulder-length blonde hair had slightly faded to an ash blonde now, but she was still gorgeous. And his wife. He felt another smile. He turned his gaze back to the front, and glanced down, suddenly aware of his own paunch. Well, maybe that was about to change.

His stomach gurgled for a second as if it were a cat enjoying the attention.

The sudden sense of mild contentment hadn’t just emerged with the old man’s death, although that had been an unexpected bonus; it was the fact that they were getting away from this place. He had never lived here by choice, although just looking at Joan now, he was reminded of why he had come. Glasgow was Joan’s home, and the idea that she might move away from her father had never, to Bob’s recollection, been considered. Bob was sure that if the old man hadn’t been so tight, he might have bribed his prospective son-in-law to go back south of the border.

Bob hadn’t, of course. His love for his future wife outweighed his dislike of her father, and Bob had moved to Scotland, got married, bought a house and ended up selling toilets. Well, not just toilets; water tanks, pipes, boiler parts, taps, valves and any other plumbing parts you could name. After fifteen years he was a plumbing expert, but he had ended up in the trade quite by chance. Before coming to Glasgow, he had sold life insurance back in Yorkshire, but had soon realised that he would never make a good living selling insurance in Scotland. He was sure he would have made more money selling bibles to Muslims.

So he sold toilets instead. Or at least he had until he had been made redundant.

William Reid never could hide his disgust for his son-in-law. In fact, he had been positively gleeful when Bob lost his job, as if the old man’s lack of faith in anyone English, and Bob in particular, had been justified after all. Joan, to her credit, had been brilliant at first, supportive, positive, comforting, but she had changed as the weeks became months. It was as if the situation, their situation, his situation, had suddenly dawned on her, and her compassion evaporated, and Bob had realised she could indeed be her father’s daughter.

Which had brought them to where they were now, together, yet separate. Now they were just a couple out of habit, and Bob didn’t know how to change that, wasn’t sure what he could do.

His stomach gave an ominous rumble, and a few seconds later he felt a slight cramp.

When they had waited for the hearse to arrive earlier that morning, the assembled family had stood quietly in tight suits and shoes that creaked, speaking in hushed tones as the coffin rested on a specially prepared trestle in the living room. Dressed all in black, Margaret Joan Reid, short and wiry, with a mop of grey hair and craggy face that sported a grog-blossomed nose, marched amongst the waiting mourners with a plate of ‘horse doves’, little puff pastry rings filled with anything small and bite size. By the time she had gotten to Bob all that was left were the ones with asparagus sticking out of them. Asparagus played havoc with his digestion, so he didn’t want any.

‘Thank you, Mrs. Reid, but I think I’m – ’

‘Eat.’

The plate was pushed further under his nose. He had looked helplessly to Joan but her pursed lips and frown said he was on his own. He took one.

‘Two.’

Weakly, he took another. She had stood beside him with the plate ready until he had eaten them both.

‘Very nice,’ he lied, spitting crumbs of pastry as he spoke. Satisfied, she moved away and threatened someone else. He dry-swallowed the last mouthful and watched, in the dark corner by the kitchen door, as she paused to rummage in her long black dress and, from a hidden pocket, pulled out a silver hip flask, which he recognised as her ‘medicine’. She flipped the lid back with a practiced ease and took a hearty swig, before closing it and pushing the flask back out of sight. He sighed, wishing he had some himself, the pastry gluing his mouth together.

Bob was forty-five, redundant, and the bottom had fallen out of toilets. The first few weeks of redundancy had been miserable. The reality of his situation had been given time to sink in. Time had also allowed him to realise the reality of his marriage. He had just silently accused Joan of not thinking about them, but he realised he hadn’t either. The realisation that his marriage was not a happy one had compounded the misery of redundancy, and Bob was fairly convinced at one point that he was suffering from clinical depression. For three days he had more-or-less stayed in bed. Joan had her job with the council, which made their situation manageable, and of course he was sure that as tight as the old man was, he probably gave her a few quid so that his daughter could have a few luxuries. The idea of that just made Bob feel even worse – his wife being supported by his father-in-law.

The depression, and the lack of job, had also given him time to come to a conclusion; quite a brave conclusion for a man like Bob Younghusband. His main motivation had been to get his wife away from her father. They needed time together, to fix things, and they weren’t going to get that time beneath the shadow of the old man.

When Bob proposed the idea, he had already convinced himself that Joan would say no. If she did, Bob had also convinced himself – well, mostly – that he would go ahead and do it anyway. Joan hadn’t left her father before, not even to get married, and he worried that she had even less reason to do so now.

To his amazement, and relief, she had agreed, and when she said yes, Bob realised he had been more nervous about this than when he had asked her to marry him.

When she had given him her answer, everything had changed, or at least, had begun to. For the first time since his redundancy, Bob had a goal, something to aim for. He was actually excited, and couldn’t wait to get started. Then William Reid had died.

Bob said nothing at first. He let his wife grieve, absorb the shock. She had lost the centre of her universe, the landscape of her life had shifted overnight, and she needed time to re-adjust. Bob spent two days trying not to think about what he would do if Joan changed her mind. And then Joan had come to him.

‘I still want to do it,’ she said.

‘Really?’ Bob wanted to jump up and down. Not the appropriate response, he thought.

‘I’ve lost my father,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to lose you.’

‘You won’t,’ he said.

‘We’ll go after the funeral,’ she added. ‘I don’t want to stay around here.’

Me either, Bob answered silently, but just smiled instead. He thought he might skip to the funeral.

They had decided to leave on the Wednesday, the day after the service, and they would be gone for three weeks. Now, sitting in the chapel, staring at the old man’s photograph, Bob heard nothing of the priest’s eulogy to his father-in-law. His mind was too busy going over the final details of the trip. All the arrangements had been made. As he went over the to-do list in his head for the umpteenth time, he did hear the priest inviting the mourners on the family’s behalf to the wake at the nearby Catholic Club. Bob’s elated state of mind deflated slightly. A wake meant enduring the family.

He was headed for a long afternoon.

Another rumble sounded from his stomach, but the closing chords of the chapel’s exit hymn smothered the sound, the curtains finally closed as William Campbell Reid took his final curtain call. For a moment he imagined he could hear the roar as the furnace started up, like a giant combi-boiler igniting.

They left the chapel and headed to the wake.

He didn’t know most of the family. William Reid had been less than enthusiastic about introducing his new son-in-law around the family, and Bob glanced around the function room of the club at a bunch of strangers. Joan pointed out the ones who had come to their wedding, which was the last time he had seen any of these people.

He took the metaphorical position of the status he occupied in this family, and stood quietly in the corner with a cup of tea and a limp sausage roll. A painful cramp bit into his lower stomach and he frowned slightly, tea poised by his lips. The asparagus was doing what it did best, and he needed make a visit. A quick glance around the club and he spotted the gents’ toilet, over to the side of a bar besieged by many shiny suits as they formed an almost impenetrable wall around it, the free bar just announced. Bob put the cup and sausage roll on the nearest table and started to move with determination, when Joan suddenly appeared in his path.

‘Bob,’ she said, wanting his attention.

He gave her a quick smile. ‘Oh, hello love,’ he said, feeling the need to clench certain muscles, not taking his eyes off his destination. ‘Sorry, I just need to –’

‘Bob, I’ve been thinking,’ she interrupted him, ‘about the trip.’

Been thinking? He stopped, suddenly caught between a rock and a hard place, the need to go now battling with the need to know. He knew it. She was going to back out. He would be going on his own after all. ‘So, you’re not going then?’ he said without preamble. He managed to keep his voice steady, no mean feat as a bear-like growl reminded him of where he was trying to get to.

‘What? Of course I am,’ she looked confused for a second. ‘What are you talking about? I said I would, didn’t I?’

He almost sighed. ‘Sorry, love, but when you said –’

‘Bob, please, listen.’ He shut up, and she took a big breath, one of those breaths that tell you something important is about to be announced. Joan spoke.

Bob listened, tensing when she told him.

‘No bloody way,’he spluttered, and with what sounded like someone trying to push a duck through a cheese grater, the asparagus eventually won its battle.

Chapter 2: Joan

What Joan Younghusband remembered most about the day her father died had been his breathing, and how at odds the ragged sound of his laboured breaths had been to what she had imagined of him, lying peacefully in his hospital bed, in a morphine-induced coma. Joan knew the end for her father was coming because they had moved William Reid to a private room. Margaret Reid had brought sandwiches, and they had enjoyed a macabre picnic at his bedside as they had waited for Joan’s father to die.

There had been a few false alarms that day. Joan had a sandwich en route, halfway to her mouth, when the regular, anticipated rhythm of his breathing suddenly halted. There was a collective silence, as Joan, the old woman, and William Reid’s one surviving sister, waited. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Margaret Reid uttered as his breathing resumed, and she took out her hip flask like a magician producing the proverbial rabbit.

Bob had come with Joan, but had popped out to the machine in the hallway, for a coffee.

The sudden cessation of her father’s breathing happened twice more in the following two hours, before the old man’s final breath emerged at 3.33pm. This time, Bob was in the Gents.

Even though his demise was expected, when the moment came it was still a shock to Joan. They called a nurse, who quietly confirmed that he had gone. At first Joan hoped it was a mistake, but when she looked at him she could see that something was missing.

The tears, when they came, were quiet ones.

So, here she was, the day after the funeral, standing outside the house of her birth and looking at the campervan that was parked in the road. She had expected … well, she wasn’t sure what she had expected, truth be told. But whatever it was, it wasn’t this. The motorhome was huge, long and sleek, with a spacious cab at the front that had better chairs in it than the ones they had in their living room. The door in the vehicle’s left-hand side was open and Bob was ferrying their luggage inside like a slightly manic but oddly competent bellhop.

‘Anything I can do?’ Joan offered, but he shook his head. For the first time since he had been made redundant, he had a life about him, a purpose, and she was happy to let him get on with it.

‘Thanks love, but I’m nearly finished. All I need are the extra bags,’ he said, trying to sound jolly, but the laughter was strained, the grin failing to reach his eyes.

Joan gave him a tight smile. ‘They’re upstairs. I’ll get them down.’

In the house, she stopped at the door to the living room and gazed in, her heart aching to see the emptiness of the room. There were two armchairs perched like old hounds in front of a dead fire, her Ma sitting on her own in one, diminutive and lost in its vast embrace, the other empty and cold. Joan stood there for a few moments unable to turn away, but equally unable to enter. Her Ma lifted her head and gazed straight at her.

‘Do you need tae fart?’

‘Eh?’

‘I’ve seen that look in your eyes before, when you were little, right before you let rip.’

‘Ma, please!’

‘But I tell you what, you’ve found your match wi’ the porky Sassenach. He cleared that club oot yesterday. Saved me a fortune!’ She cackled and the silver hipflask magically appeared at her lips. She took a few glugs.

‘We’re leaving soon, ma, nearly time to say bye.’

‘Aye, nae problem. I’ll be here when y’ need me, hin.’

Joan turned away, the spell broken, and headed upstairs. She went into Ma and Da’s room and looked at the large, empty bed, a bed made for two.

Not for the first time in the last couple of days, she wondered if she had made the right decision about going. Joan cast her mind back to the moment, the day before the funeral, when she decided to go back to work for the day. It was selfish really; she wanted to get out from under the feet of Bob and his incessant talking about the trip in the campervan he had hired, and she wanted to do something that took her mind off her father’s death.

So she had gone to work.

That morning a fine drizzle was shining on the black tarmac outside the Polmadie Waste Transfer Station as Joan parked her car in one of the bays to the side of the building. She sat in her seat with the engine off, lost in thought, the windscreen blurring under the coat of rain now that the wipers were stilled. It was five-to-eight in the morning and cars were pulling up in the remaining spaces, the sounds of their doors opening then slamming, and the quick tapping of footsteps as the occupants headed to the nearby entrance providing the only soundtrack around her. She took a steadying breath and wondered if being here was the best thing for her, but what else was there to do? Be at home and wallow in despair, or be at work and forget, albeit briefly, the sadness that swamped her?

Joan blinked and shook her head. It was a no-brainer she decided, and leant over to the floor by the passenger seat and fumbled for the umbrella she knew was there. Her hand found it and she sat up, pulling the key out of the ignition and opening the door in one fluid movement. Thrusting the umbrella out first she pushed the button on it and stepped from the car as the brolly opened with a sliding click, rising above her on an impossibly short handle, a handle that was also bright pink. Frowning she looked up to a tiny canopy, which was sporting a Barbie Princess’s smiling face. She sighed. This was her niece’s umbrella, but she couldn’t find the energy to get back in the car to find her own, so she pushed the door shut and pressed the keyfob to lock the car and headed inside.

Keeping her head down she walked along the short corridor to her office, avoiding meeting anyone’s gaze. She wasn’t in the mood for office small-talk and felt relieved when she was sitting at her desk, her coat on the peg near the door and the tiny umbrella folded and resting on the floor under it. She stared at her desk for a moment, checking that everything was in its right place, before making sure that her pencils all had needle-sharp points. They stood in a line like soldiers with their bayonets drawn, ready for battle.

The clock on the wall near the long window clicked on eight and the door flew open as Savita breezed in, plumping herself down in the seat by the other desk.

‘Hey, Joan, I did’nae see you there,’ she said, eyebrows rising in surprise, her accent a sort of Punjab-wegian. ‘When did you get in?’

‘Just now. Didn’t want to stay indoors any more.’

‘Oh, aye. I think I can understand that.’ Nodding, she pursed her lips for a moment. ‘How’re you feeling, hin?’

Joan paused, not really sure how she felt. Was numb a feeling? In the end she shrugged. ‘Sad. The funeral’s tomorrow and I don’t know what to do?’

Savita pushed out on her castors and scooted her chair across the office to come over to the side of Joan’s desk. ‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, Bob wants us both to get away from it all in a campervan, to try and rekindle our marriage, and then my Da dies.’

‘I’m so sorry to hear that,’ said Savita, reaching out to hold Joan’s hand.

‘It’s okay, he had cancer and we knew it was going to happen for months.’

‘No, I meant going away with Bob.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Joan didn’t register Savita’s attempt at a joke.

‘What’s happening with your Ma then?’

Joan blew out a breath and spread her hands out to either side, palms up. ‘I don’t know. She hasn’t been on her own for… I don’t know how long,’ she said, shaking her head slightly. ‘Julie and Lynne are busy with their own families, and with Brucie living in Wales I’m the only one who visits on a regular basis, except I’m about to go away and it doesn’t feel right.’

‘What would happen if you don’t go?’ Savita stood, walked over to a nearby shelf and pushed the lever down on a kettle. It started to make a bubbling sound within a few seconds.

‘Don’t go? Well, there’s a question. I suppose,’ she thought for a second, ‘that would be the end of it.’ Joan joined Savita, got two cups and spooned some coffee into each, two sugars for herself, two sweeteners for Savita. Making coffee first thing in the morning was a ritual the two of them had developed over the years they had worked together, and they didn’t even need to think about it.

‘The end of the marriage?’ said Savita. The kettle reached the boil and they heard it click off.

Joan nodded. ‘Yes.’ She poured the hot water into both cups, and Savita poured in the milk they kept in the small fridge near the window. They both paused during the ritual of the stirring, followed by the first sip.

Savita broke the silence. ‘Would that be a bad thing, though?’ She knew all about Joan and Bob’s rough patch, if you could call two years a patch.

‘I, well, yes, it would. Wouldn’t it? Or maybe it wouldn’t? You know, if you’d asked me this two months ago the answer would’ve been clearer, but now I’m not so certain.’ Both women took their seats at the desk. ‘Then, I would’ve had no problem saying it wasn’t worth saving, but when Bob got made redundant –’ she stopped, clearly at odds with herself, disguising the moment by taking a sip of coffee. ‘He became vulnerable, you know? And for the first time in years he needed me, actually needed me. And I liked it. He listened to me and what I had to say was actually important to him. In fact, this whole campervan thing was sort of my idea.’

‘Your idea? Really?’ Savita savoured the aroma of her coffee and took a delicate sip.

Joan shrugged. ‘He was low, depressed, you know? Staying in bed, feeling pretty worthless I suppose. I had to kick him in the arse to get him to do anything. But I couldn’t let him just fester in his depression, so I said he had to get up and get out, look for work, get travelling. I was pretty hard on him, but he needed it. And he just latched on to the travelling bit and came up with this trip notion. What could I do? I hadn’t seen him so animated in a long time, so I said yes.’

Savita sucked in a breath. ‘And now with your Da gone you can’nae leave your Ma on her own?’

‘No, we can’t.’

‘We can’t?’

‘Okay, I can’t. Bob could, though, no trouble.’

‘Bob doesn’t get on with your Ma, then?’

She snorted. ‘Not on your life. She winds him up the whole time like it’s a sport. With Da being in the hospice she had no one else to focus on, so he got the full brunt of it. And she’s good at it, too.’

‘Of course she’s good. She’s a woman. We’re all good at it!’ And they both laughed. It was the first time in the last few weeks that Joan had laughed and it felt good.

‘Oh, I don’t know, Savita. I want to go, I want the marriage to work, but I don’t want to leave Ma.’ And it was then that she decided. Just like that. It was obvious and she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before. ‘I’ll take her with us,’ she said.

Savita sprayed coffee across the desk.

Chapter 3: The Mother

The sign read London and South East 345 miles. Bob Younghusband gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

You can make the best plans, watertight in every detail, accommodating all eventualities, anticipating every conceivable obstacle, and be convinced you had everything covered. Joan and he had their passports, their European Health Insurance Cards, European breakdown cover, and he had even notified the credit card company that they were travelling abroad, even though the credit card company had informed him that they didn’t need notification. Bob had covered everything, and then triple-checked that he had covered everything. This was going to be a stress-free trip, the tonic that their marriage needed, and it was going to run as smooth as a sheet of china silk.

He had been imagining this moment for weeks, sat behind the wheel of a luxury motorhome, heading south of the Scottish border to the warm climes of the Mediterranean, his wife beside him at the wheel.

Except, she wasn’t.

Bob glared out of the corner of his eye to his left, at Joan’s mother sitting next to him in the passenger’s seat. She took a crafty swig from her hip flask and smiled, stifling the noise of a burp but unable to hide the smell it contained. A single malt, he judged, reaching forward to tap the button to blast air into the cab. She muttered something unintelligible under her breath but, whatever it was, it was lost to the tame gale that whipped past them.

Joan, sat in the rear passenger seat behind her mother, stretched over and thumped the air button, the howl of freezing air dying away. She didn’t say anything, but the look Bob caught on her face from the corner of his eye was almost as cold as the air that stung at them.

He glanced at the clock in the dashboard. They had been on the road for half-an-hour, and the only voice to be heard in the camper had been from the sat-nav, which had just informed them that they should remain on the M74 for twenty miles.

As if this had been her cue, Joan’s mother spoke.

‘Well, I would’nae spend my money on this gin palace.’ She spoke in a Glaswegian brogue with its rough-hewn edge. She reminded Bob of Alex Ferguson in a dress, not so much for her accent as for the fact that she had a face like a slab that had been hacked with a pickaxe.

‘Well, it’s not your money,’ Bob responded.

Joan looked across at him. ‘Bob,’ she warned.

‘If you’re stupid enough to lose your job in the first place, you should’nae be frittering it away on fancy stuff you can’nae afford.’

Bob took a deep breath. ‘We’ve only hired it,’ he said.

‘And I thought you’d have had more sense,’ Margaret Reid said, turning on Joan. ‘Blowing your father’s money on a long holiday. He’ll be turning in his grave. To think a daughter of mine spending-’

‘She’s not your daughter,’ Bob said, and he could feel just the slightest smile pinching at the corners of his mouth. He wanted to add that William Reid couldn’t possibly be turning in a grave, either.

‘Bob!’ Joan snapped.

‘Well you’re not her daughter,’ he said.

‘I may be seventy-eight but I’m not senile yet,’ Margaret Reid said. ‘I don’t need you to point out who she is.’

‘She’s your stepdaughter,’ Bob pointed out helpfully.

‘And look what she gave me for a step-son-in-law,’ the old woman said.

‘Well there’s not many step-son-in-laws that would have brought you along.’

‘It was’nae my idea.’

‘Shall I turn round then?’ he asked.

‘Will the pair of you stop it!?’ Joan snapped.

There was silence for a moment. ‘Sorry, love,’ Bob said. ‘She winds me up. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re as bad as each other,’ Joan said. ‘Mum,’ she continued. ‘Bob’s paid for this out of his redundancy. I haven’t used Da’s money. He has also very kindly invited you along even though this trip was supposed to be for me and him.’

Bob frowned. Inviting his mother-in-law on the trip? Not what he remembered from the wake, though he must admit he was doing his best to forget about yesterday. Sodding bloody asparagus!

‘The least you can do is be civil about it,’ Joan said.

The old woman said nothing, which was just the way Bob liked it. A road sign read Carlisle 70 miles.

He had got a very good rental deal on the camper. He might have been made redundant but his negotiating skills obviously hadn’t suffered. The rental salesman had been putty in his hands, which had done something for Bob’s battered ego. He would like to have seen his father-in-law do any better. He had even got a free upgrade to a two-bedroom model, which had been just as well in view of their extra passenger. Even with two bedrooms, there wouldn’t be much privacy, and Bob had already decided that once they were in France, their first overnight stopover would be in a hotel. Blow the expense. He needed to re-establish relations with his wife, and there wasn’t much chance of that happening with Alex Ferguson sitting on the sidelines, calling for a substitution.

At least she wasn’t going to be with them the whole trip. Four days in Brittany, Joan had said, and then she would take her back on the ferry and meet Joan’s cousin at the other end. It sounded an expensive way of doing it to Bob, but Joan had said she would pay for that part of the trip out of her dad’s money.

Joan had sprung the news of their extra passenger on him just as he was heading to the loo in the Catholic Club after the funeral. He felt a blush as he remembered the moment, the sudden stop in the music that was filled with his gaseous explosion. He had put his head down and moved away to the gents, leaving Joan blinking and reeling in his wake.

When he returned, Joan was waiting, though a few feet away from where he had been standing. He stood beside her and whispered, ‘You have got to be joking!’

Joan had looked suitably sheepish. ‘I can’t just leave her,’ she said.

‘Yes you can.’

‘I’m just trying to do the right thing.’

‘Why? She’s never done the right thing for you.’

‘She brought me up!’

‘Brought you up? Tolerated you, more like.’

‘Bob!’

‘But it’s true, isn’t it? She didn’t show one bit of interest in you when you were a kid, that’s what you told me. We all know she was after your dad for his money. Gold-digger, you called her.’

‘That doesn’t mean I have to be mean in return,’ Joan said. ‘She’s an old woman who’s just lost her husband. I’m just showing her some kindness.’

‘Aye, on our holiday!’

‘This is so typical of you,’ Joan said. ‘Self, self, bloody self.’

Bob knew he wasn’t going to win, and if he continued this argument, they wouldn’t be going away at all. The old woman was coming, and that was that. Only one thing might stop it.

‘Has she got a passport?’ he had asked, hoping...

‘Yes. She renewed it when they went off to Florida.’

‘Oh,’ He said simply, his last hope dashed.

And that was it, decided.

A smattering of rain dotted the large, sloped windscreen of the cab, as if Scotland was crying that they should be leaving its green and verdant land. The wipers came on automatically, and Bob was impressed. This campervan was full of surprises.

‘Are we stopping soon?’ the old lady asked.

‘We haven’t been on the road an hour,’ Bob answered. ‘Why do you want to stop?’

Margaret Reid said nothing, and stared stoically out of the camper’s windscreen at the road ahead.

‘Bob?’ Joan said and he glanced at her. She frowned back, pursing her lips at him.

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ he muttered quietly. In a louder voice, ‘We’ve just gone past a sign that said fifteen miles to the next services,’ he said, so Margaret would hear, not taking his eyes of the road. ‘Can you wait that long?’

Again she said nothing, and just stared ahead out of the windscreen until they parked up fifteen minutes later, and Joan walked with her mother into the service station. Bob followed at a