One Perfect Summer

 
    ‘ There’ll be bluebirds over . . .’
    ‘We’re going to Dorset, not Dover, Mum.’ I interrupt as she launches into another rendition of ‘The White Cliffs Of Dover.’
    ‘I know, but I can sing, can’t I?’ She pretends to be wounded.
    ‘It would be better if you stuck to painting,’ I tease.
    She flashes me a grin and I smile back at her from the front passenger seat.
    ‘This is going to be fun!’ she exclaims, reaching for the knob on the car’s radio. She’s about to settle for Heart so I quickly intervene. Dammit, there’s no XFM this far out of London!
    ‘iPod?’ I suggest hopefully.
    ‘Go on, then,’ she concedes. ‘Anything to get you in the holiday mood.’
    ‘I am in the holiday mood,’ I try to convince her as I plug in my brand-new white MP3 player – a present from my parents for my recent birthday. Mum gives me a discerning look before returning her eyes to the road.
    ‘I know you’re disappointed Lizzy can’t come, but you’ll still have a good time. Plus, you’ll be able to get started on all your university reading.’
    ‘Mmm.’
    ‘Over’ by Portishead begins to play.
    ‘For goodness sake, Alice, this is making me want to slit my wrists!’ protests Mum after a while. ‘I mean it,’ she continues when I ignore her. ‘Something more upbeat. Please! ’
    I sigh, but comply. Madonna’s ‘Holiday’ starts belting out from the speakers.
    ‘This is more like it!’ She starts to sing again.
    ‘ Mu-um ,’ I moan. ‘Remember your vocation.’
    She laughs. ‘That’s a big word for a teenager. Aah, but you are going to Cambridge University.’
    ‘University in Cambridge, not the University of Cambridge,’ I correct her for what feels like the umpteenth time. I’m actually going to Anglia Ruskin, but she seems to forget the details when relaying this fact to her friends.
    ‘It’s still a big deal,’ she says and I don’t disagree because it’s nice to have proud parents. Then she’s off again: ‘ Holiday! ’
    And like they say, if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em, so I do.
    My mum is an artist. She specialises in painting abstract landscapes using oils, and incorporating other materials like metal, sand and stone. She’s struggled for years to make decent money, so although her last collection sold well, my dad is still the main breadwinner. He’s working at his accounting job in London during the week and will be joining us in Dorset at the weekends. It’s the middle of July now and we’ll be here until the end of August. Mum plans on spending these six weeks working on her new collection which, to her delight, is being exhibited at a super-cool East London gallery in September.
    As for me, initially I agreed to this long summer break because my best friend, Lizzy, was going to come too. She’s heading off to university in Edinburgh and we’re both sad at the idea of leaving each other. We’ve spent the last few years living practically in each other’s pockets, so this will be the end of an era. The pair of us envisaged long, lazy summer days sunbathing in the garden or borrowing Mum’s car to go to the beach. But Lizzy’s mum, Susan, recently discovered she had a lump in one of her breasts, which turned out to be malignant. The shock was immense and I still feel absolutely sick at the thought of what my friend and her family are going through. Susan is having an operation this week to remove the lump and then will have to undergo chemotherapy; so, needless to say, Lizzy needs to be with her right now.
    ‘Isn’t this pretty?’ Mum says. I look out of the window at the rolling green hills. ‘Look! Are those wild horses?’ She doesn’t wait for me to answer, not that I’d know. ‘You could have riding lessons while you’re here. And there’s a castle not too far from where we’re staying. You can catch a steam train from Swanage that takes you all the way there.’
    ‘I know, you’ve told me already.’
    ‘Well, that will be fun, won’t it?’
    ‘Sure,’ I reply non-committally. It would have been fun. If Lizzy were here. Oh, I hope her mum is going to be okay . . .
    ‘You might make some new friends,’ Mum suggests hopefully, oblivious to my inner turmoil.
    ‘I’m not eight anymore,’ I reply with a wry smile.
    ‘I know, but you’ll have a good time,’ she says again.
    I think she’s trying to convince herself of that as much as she’s trying to convince me.
    The cottage where we’re staying is off the beaten