Page 29 of Short Stack 3

“Cataloguing the trip for Gabe. I promised. This is picture one.” He examines it. “I’m going to title it ‘The Face of Doom’.”

“Oh, shut up.” He starts to laugh, and I shake my head. “Such a twat.”

That makes him laugh harder.

“Are you parking that thing there permanently?”

The querulous query comes from behind me, and I sigh and turn to see Mr Singleton, the head of the neighbourhood watch. I’m pretty sure he’s burnt rubber getting outside this quickly.

“No, of course not, Mr Singleton.”

“Because wecannothave vehicles like this spoiling the natural beauty of the mews.”

“It’s a camper van. Not a rusty old Cortina.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not thinking of letting someone live in it, are you?”

“Someone couldlivein it?” I say incredulously. “It’s stretching my imagination to even stay in it overnight.” I hear a muffled snort from behind me and roll my eyes. “No, we are not renting it out. We are not letting a family of Borrowers move in. We are merely packing it up to go away for the weekend.”

“You?”

Another muffled snort sounds softly, and I narrow my eyes. “Yes, me. Is there something wrong with that?”

He looks me up and down dubiously, noting my outfit of tight, checked trousers that I’ve paired with a T-shirt and a cashmere cardigan. I was going for smart casual, but Mr Singleton doesn’t seem to share my sartorial joy.

“No, it just doesn’t seem your sort of thing,” he finally says.

“Well, I’m sure it will be,” I say in the tone of forced jollity that I last employed during the street party for the platinum jubilee. “Now, we must get on with our trip before the van starts to rust.”

He blanches, examining the van as if giant weeds are going to spring up immediately under the wheels, trapping it here for eternity. “As you were,” he says. He waves a careless hand and marches back into his cottage.

I spin around and pop my head back into the van. Ivo is sitting on the floor, leaning back against the seat with his long legs stretched out. His eyes are twinkling. “So, this is your sort of thing, Henry? This is news to me.”

“That would be like axe throwing being on Anne Boleyn’s bucket list.” He starts to laugh, and I shake my head in dismay. “Now we’vegotto go.”

His eyes narrow. “Weren’t we going anyway?”

“Oh yes,” I say hurriedly. “Don’t listen to me.”

“I dotrythat,” he says in a solemn voice. “But some of it still sinks in.”

An hour later, I settle back in my seat. The motorway is busy, but Ivo is as relaxed as ever, his hands loose on the wheel but his eyes alert. I sneak a look at Bertie, who’s sleeping happily. He’s like a little tortoise, and his basket is his shell. He’ll sleep anywhere as long as we bring his basket.

“So, this is Seb’s van, then?” I ask Ivo. “When did he buy it?”

Seb is a journalist mate of Ivo and Max from the old days. He’s loud and brash and could drink all the members of Guns N’ Roses under the table. He’s also the source of all embarrassing stories about Ivo and Max, so I love him.

“A few months ago.”

“Why?”

He chuckles. “Beyond a love of the great outdoors and seeing the country he was born in?”

I wave a dismissive hand. “He thinks the great outdoors is a pub beer garden. That’s why I get on with him.”

“It’s not his ability to recite that ridiculous story of Max losing his trousers, then? He’s embellished that one more than Enid Blyton with her magic tree.”

I laugh. “Oh, okay. It just rang rather true, given that Max lost his jeans at Glastonbury last month.”

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