The estate agent breezes through my mum’s house with more than an air of confidence and an exaggerated false enthusiasm. She pulls back curtains, closes cupboards and busily films all the internal rooms, undoubtedly trying to make them look larger and far grander than they actually are. I follow her into the garden and stand at the edge of the lawn as she sets up a small tripod on the end wall.
“This will look wonderful,” she says. “The sun rays really light up the back garden. We’ll have the property sold for you in no time.”
Mum is looking out of the kitchen window and smiles as if posing for the camera. She is certainly going to miss the house she’s lived in since her wedding day, but I know there is some happiness: she is looking forward to moving in with Peter and me.
I give her a quick wave and walk down the short, crazy-paved path to the one thing I will be sad to leave behind: the caravan. The paint has nearly all disappeared, and its smeared, brown cracks, like badly constructed cobwebs, cling to the walls. And the steps to the door are completely covered in dense, green moss. Despite the relentless destructive passage of time, one thing is safely stored inside the caravan and remains in perfect condition: my childhood memories.
As I reach over to test the door handle, the estate agent’s voice breaks into my thoughts.
“It would be a good idea to get this old thing removed before anyone comes round to view the property. It is a bit of an eyesore, to be honest. No one will want something like this at the bottom of their garden.”
She slaps the side wall as if confirming that I know what she is referring to, and then quickly checks her hand to see if anything has been smudged onto it: Maybe she fears contamination.
I know she is right but I spent so much of my youth in there. I would be really sad to see it just disappear. And it was on the fold-down, double chair I had first kissed the boy who lived next door: Peter.
As soon as the estate agent has left, Mum makes us both a cup of tea. Fully aware of how tough this must be for her, I decide to say nothing about the idea of scrapping the old caravan. However, Mum brings the subject up herself.
“I saw that lady looking at our van. I bet she didn’t like it standing there. Will bring the value of the property down,” she says in a mocking, high-pitched voice.
“Yes, you’re dead right. She wasn’t that keen on it,” I reply, trying to hide my true emotion.
“You used to spend more time in there, than you did in your bedroom. You virtually lived in it,” Mum says.
We both laugh and drink some of our tea while allowing our thoughts to meander over the past.
Suddenly, Peter appears at the kitchen door.
“Hi. Has the estate agent been and gone?” He says, and pours himself a mug of tea.
“Yes, you just missed her. Lucky you!” I reply.
Checking the kitchen clock, I say, “You’re an early finisher today.”
“Easy job. Wished they were all that simple. Just building a small, stone fire-pit in the garden of one of those new houses near Blackfell.”
“I think the lady from Propsell would have preferred to see a fire-pit at the end of Mum’s garden, rather than the only mobile caravan that has never moved in its entire life.”
“That can be arranged. One match and a drop of petrol,” Peter says with a smile on his face.
“You’ve done more than enough for me, Pete,” Mum says, “What with all the work you’ve carried out on your own house. That patio area. Unbelievable how you’ve converted it into a lovely downstairs bedroom for me. And it has its own bathroom. I’ll be the Queen of the Extension.”
I chuckle at Mum’s joke, happy to hear she’s so positive about moving.
“The first time you ever went in there,” Mum says, wagging her finger in the direction of the end of the garden, “was Christmas 1966.”
Peter and I know where this story is going but we don’t interrupt.
“Christmas morning. You were two years old, and I walked with you down the path to the Grotto. You were so excited. A couple of candles were burning in the windows, and inside was your dad, donned up as Santa. Probably the worst-dressed Santa on the planet. You had no idea it was him and happily sat on his knee, answering all the questions he had prepared. We did the same thing for the next three years. I think your dad enjoyed it as much as you did. We all called it the ‘Grotto Van’ for ages after that.”
“Now it’s the ‘Grotty Van’,” Peter says and receives a look only mothers-in-law can give.
Then she adds, “I’ve got a super photo of the two of you. The one where you’re pulling at his flimsy, white beard.”
I knew which picture she was referring to. One of the many that have been framed and are hanging on the walls around the house. Peter once said that the number of photographs on display was like a memorial to my childhood.
“When you were a baby and wouldn’t go to sleep, I used to carry you over to the caravan and sat with you for what seemed like hours. Sometimes, after you’d nodded off, I would just stay in there with you. It was such a peaceful place.”
“It wasn’t always that peaceful, Mum. Do you remember that time I had a few friends over from my class for my birthday? Was it my 7th? We played that statues game, and you came marching down the path to turn the music off. ‘It’s far too loud,’ you shouted. But you hadn’t realised that the game we played was all about standing perfectly still as soon as the music stopped. I remember your face when you looked at us all. Frozen, trying hard not to laugh at your startled expression. You expected to be confronted by a group of rioting children but were met by silent statues. When you returned to the house we all fell to the floor in hysterics. We never finished the game.”
I turn to Peter and ask him if he remembers that time we decided to paint the caravan brown. “You had some sort of paint, left over from when your dad had built his shed.”
“Of course, I remember. It was actually creosote. What a mess we made,” he replies.
“We were so small we could only reach about halfway up, and the stuff didn’t stick to the walls. And did it smell!”
Mum puts her cup down and adds, “It was one of the few times your dad got mad with you. It took him ages to sort out all your damage. And as for you Pete, you were banned from the garden. Your mum and dad were really upset and even offered to pay for the caravan to be painted properly.”
It was never repainted.
On the stairs, under the hallway window, is a photograph of Peter and me, standing next to our creative artwork. We are both grinning wildly and proudly holding our dripping paintbrushes. The fact that Dad took a photo means he wasn’t really cross with us. And I don’t remember Peter ever being banned from seeing me.
Abruptly, Mum pushes back her chair and walks out of the kitchen.
Peter gives me a puzzled look which I can only return.
“I remember something else about the caravan,” he says. “I bet your mum doesn’t have a framed photo of that.”
I know exactly what he is referring to. “She definitely hasn’t,” I say in a quiet voice.
“Who would have thought that the first girl I ever kissed would end up becoming my wife?”
“Do you remember we named the caravan ‘The Kissing Van’?” I ask.
“How could I ever forget?”
At that moment, Mum re-enters the kitchen, clutching a pile of framed pictures.
“Look at these,” she says, dropping the frames onto the table. She picks up the top one and holds it out for Peter and myself to see.
“This is your Aunty Betty. That’s you on the steps. Do you recall she stayed in the caravan for a few weeks when she had a bit of bother with Uncle Clive? You, young madam, tried to charge her rent!”
Mum flips over another frame. “And this one is you and your schoolmates, all tucked up inside. I think the kids today would call it a sleepover. Well, I can tell you, there was very little sleep that night.”
“And look at this one. That’s when your dad had the electricity cable put in. He is sitting there as if he’s in the front room. And do you see that book on the floor?” Mum points at a small, faded rectangle by my dad’s feet. “That’s one of your school books. You started to do your homework in there after the lights had been fitted and the heater installed. A couple of times, you went straight to the caravan, as soon as you got home. We had no idea where you were. We nearly called out a search party.”
“Tut, tut,” mocks Peter. “You naughty girl. What else did you do in there?”
I gently tap Peter’s leg under the table.
“Okay, one last one.” Mum wasn’t to be distracted. “Here’s you with your violin. Your dad and I were so pleased to have the ‘Music Van’ far away from the house.
“Yes, we could hear it next door!” says Peter. “My dad thought a bunch of stray cats had moved in.” He receives another slap, not quite as gentle this time.
“You know, that caravan has been an important part of our lives. And now it’s seen as just a piece of scrap.” Mum lets out a sigh.
“Another cup of tea, anyone?”
“Not for me, thanks,” says Peter. “I’ll get back home and finish that bit of painting in the new bathroom.” He turns towards my mum and says, “If this house sells quickly, you might be moving in with us sooner than you think.”
Peter leaves through the kitchen door, and I watch him walk towards the old caravan. I’m surprised when I see he’s taking a few photos of it on his phone. I bet he’s going to have them framed and put into Mum’s new room.
The estate agent turned out to be right: Mum’s house did sell very quickly. A young couple from Bradford fell in love with it as soon as they walked through the gate.
Peter has been very busy putting the finishing touch to Mum’s new rooms. We’ve also been working on the old caravan and managed to save one of the side walls. With a coating of the correct type of paint, not creosote, we created a feature and fastened it to the side fence of our house, just outside Mum’s bedroom window. Peter has constructed a short overhang, and we’ve placed a table with a couple of chairs under it for when the weather is fine enough to sit outside.
The caravan wall is now covered with Mum’s framed photographs: the history of our caravan is there for her to enjoy. Of course, my own pictorial history is on it too. There was only one picture missing, and we soon rectified that: We took a ‘selfie’ and had the photo printed and framed.
It is hanging next to the one of a ten-year-old-me, brandishing the violin like a machine gun, on the caravan steps.
I wonder how long it will take Mum to spot that shot of Peter and I, re-enacting our very first kiss.
(Published, People’s Friend, May 2025)
