Seb said, “You’re a gypsy, aren’t you, Ma?”. Oh, dear. For a start I knew he’d probably heard that description from his father. I sincerely hope he doesn’t describe his grandmother in those terms when it comes to a “My Family” writing exercise in school. The consequences for him of his family being newly labelled or of being taken to task for the language are rather heavy for a seven year old.
Yes, the language police would have something to say about his descriptor. I learned in one of those work-related conferences that the word ‘gypsy’ is off limits to those outside the Roma community. Nevertheless his perception of me and ‘G’ (Gareth) is that we live in a caravan and are always off to new places, like ‘gypsies’.
“You don’t have a house”, he added. “Well, we do, but someone else is living in it at the moment”, I told him. He understands the idea of a tenant as his parents own their next door property and rent it out.
He seemed a little concerned that we don’t have a house where they can come and stay with us comfortably. Ivy, too, often asks “Can I come to your house?” She is four now; too young to remember crawling around the sitting room at Bay View. Seb, however, is old enough to remember what he calls ‘the big house’, running around it with Reuben; lots of space to play with the dogs and so many hide-and-seek opportunities. Margot was still tiny when we sold up.
“Remember the crying lion, Ma?” They had visited one last time before we moved out and he noticed a tear in the eye of one of the concrete lions that flanked the steps to the front door. A raindrop, of course, but surreal nonetheless and a perfect projection of Seb’s sadness at saying goodbye to ‘the big house’.
The conversation left me thoughtful as we went our separate ways from a couple of days rendezvous in the Peak District. As much as I didn’t miss the vastness of that house for B&B cleaning purposes and on Gareth’s behalf recognised the scale of maintenance it required, I had loved its ability to accommodate family; to have them all together comfortably, and to host important occasions. I also loved its ‘big duvet’ quality when the weather turned ugly. Stormy days in the caravan or motorhome are reminders of our human vulnerabilities, especially in a Climate Emergency.
Another spur to our thinking is this flippin pandemic! Winter travel is now something to be more cautious about. What if one of us gets ill while abroad? What if there’s a lockdown wherever we are? How might the Brexit debacle affect us? So many concerns.
After lots of talking about it over the next few days we decided that we need a fixed abode. Slim pickings available as regards dog-friendly, suitable winter lets, we’ve had to ask our tenant to leave. However, a new law to protect tenants from eviction during the pandemic is that they are to be given a minimum of six months notice. Ho-hum.
So while the September sun shines here at the caravan park we wait to see what happens next. Watch this space, folks; things are about to change again for us. But this is a strange time for everyone, isn’t it? We are all being carried along in a fluid situation. Let’s hope it doesn’t become a torrent.
