I was suffocating, thanks to
a combination of the mid-morning August heat of a static caravan, and the viscous
atmosphere of marital discord. It wasn’t a surprise to see the breakfast plate
fly over my head. Its trajectory was quickly interrupted by the kitchen window,
which stood slightly ajar. The impact of plastic on pvc wasn’t a moment of the
highest drama, and the plate bounced perkily onto the worktop, leaving its
contents erratically framed; momentary modern art for the viewing pleasure of
the family next door. The bacon put up little resistance to its fate,
succumbing first to gravity, and then, audibly, to the jaws of the dog, but the
egg clung on grimly for a moment, resolutely prolonging the tension before
slithering with a faint defeated plop to an identical fate.
I wanted to laugh, but we’d
learned the hard way that this could inflame a situation. Pretending not to
have noticed that anything unusual had happened, I scooted across the
upholstery, allowing Dad to negotiate his way out from behind the pull-down
table and follow the example of his breakfast in making a swift exit from the
caravan. My sister watched; silent, saucer-eyed. Slamming the door wasn’t a
very satisfactory way to vent his feelings – it shook the walls, but failed to
register the necessary decibels, so he over compensated with an energetic stamp
down the three small aluminium steps outside and then revved the car
dramatically before roaring off within the ten mile an hour site speed limit.
‘Out,’ said Mum, studying the trail of grease
on the window. ‘Out, now.’
We went. At least, I thought,
nothing breaks in a caravan. No matter how much you might want it to.
