It was many years ago now, but I still remember the seaside holidays my husband and I used to take. For several summers in a row, we journeyed to the coast with our friends, each of us in our own cars. We preferred things rusticwild as we called it. Wed find a stretch of English coastline far from the bustle, pitch our tents, and make our little camp. The days would be spent splashing in the sea, basking in the sun, and tending to the daily chores that the simple life required. When evening fell, wed gather round a crackling campfire, singing old songs to the accompaniment of a battered guitar, sharing laughter and a glass of dry red wine as the moon shone bright above us.
That particular year, my sister-in-law Rebecca joined our group, bringing along her little boy, all of two and a half years old. They squeezed in with us and my mother-in-lawtake it or leave it, as they say.
Against my better judgement, we let ourselves be persuaded. Ill skip ahead and say, it wasnt the child who proved difficult, but Rebecca herself. Trouble started as soon as we set off. Rebecca insisted on stopping every hourshe claimed she was utterly exhausted and simply had to lie down. Because of this, we arrived at the campsite well after our friends, who had long since settled in and even managed a swim before wed emerged from our car, crumpled and weary.
But at last, there we wereand this was when the real commotion began. Rebecca had a full-blown tantrum: I refuse to stay here!
But why? We told you we camp wild! I protested.
Well, I thought wild meant wed have to look after ourselves, not that wed forego a proper hotel altogether, she snapped.
Why did you think we brought sleeping bags and tents? my husband muttered.
I assumed you just liked camping for the fun of it!
So it came to pass that we had to rent her a room in the nearest guesthouse. That wasnt the end of itmy brother had to fetch her each morning, bring her round to our little camp, and see to her return every evening. There were other errands too: runs to the local cafés, trips to market, and plenty of time spent minding her little boy while Rebecca recovered from her honest labours, as she called them.
Mind you, we all took turns watching over the child. To his credit, the boy was a delightgood-natured, obedient, running about on the sand, splashing happily in the waves, eating what was given without fuss, and napping peacefully in the tent when afternoon grew warm. His mother, on the other hand, was a world apart.
Next year, it was settled: Rebecca would not be part of our seaside adventure. But if his parents ask, we might just take our nephewhe truly is someone special.
