One Perfect Summer

me not to be able to go and pat him. He must hate it, being tied up out at the back. I feel a wave of affection for him and silently promise to have some treats ready when Joe comes to see me later tonight.

 
    About halfway through my holiday, Joe takes a day off so we can go together to Brownsea Island. The island belongs to the National Trust and it’s supposed to be breathtakingly beautiful. No dogs are allowed, though, and Joe was feeling guilty about leaving Dyson all day with his parents, but in the end it was my mum who came through.
    ‘Leave him with me. He can keep me company in the garden.’
    ‘No, he’ll be a nightmare,’ Joe responded. ‘He’ll probably knock over your easel or eat your paint or something.’
    ‘He’ll be fine . He’s a good dog.’ Mum patted him affectionately. ‘If he’s a problem I’ll stick him out on the driveway.’
    Joe hesitated.
    ‘He’ll be fine, I promise!’ she insisted.
    ‘Are you sure?’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    I think she was worried about leaving Dyson all day with Joe’s terrible parents as we are. In the end, Joe conceded.
    The boat for the island arrives and we climb aboard. We sit near the front on the left. Joe wraps his arm around me and pulls me close. I rest my head on his shoulder as we wait for the boat to start. Soon we’re zooming past white cliffs towering overhead and staring in at smugglers’ caves.
    Over the Tannoy, the tour guide tells us that this area was the inspiration behind many of Enid Blyton’s books.
    ‘Did you read Enid Blyton when you were a kid?’ I ask Joe.
    ‘Yeah, The Famous Five books were awesome.’
    ‘I loved those too. And The Magic Faraway Tree .’
    ‘Yeah!’ he enthuses. ‘The lands at the top of the tree that kept changing . . .’
    ‘And the different fruits that grew on the tree as you climbed up!’
    We pass Old Harry’s Rocks, tall free-standing chalk stacks projecting out of the ocean and named, allegedly, after Harry Paye, the infamous pirate, who used to store his contraband nearby. The man sitting in front of us tells this story to his two excited young boys while their mother looks on fondly.
    ‘It’s really interesting, all this history,’ Joe comments.
    My brow furrows. He ’ s so interesting – and interested – that I don’t understand why he doesn’t want to go to university. Is that really snobby of me?
    I cuddle in close and press my cheek against his chest. He holds me even tighter.
    Soon Brownsea Island and its pretty castle appear before us. We dock at the pier and walk through to the entrance to pay our fee. We’ve brought a picnic, so we wander until we come to a meadow. There are a couple of peacocks ambling about, and some geese, ducks and chickens too. I throw a mother duck and her babies some bread.
    ‘Now you’ve done it,’ Joe teases, as the chickens come running and clucking. Soon a whole host of wildlife is right on our doorstep. A chicken hops onto our picnic rug.
    ‘That’s one step too far, matey,’ Joe says, pushing it away with his foot. It comes straight back again. ‘Fuck me, these birds are persistent.’
    I start laughing as a peacock shakes his tail-feathers in our direction.
    ‘Steady, boy,’ Joe warns.
    ‘Hey, look!’ I exclaim, looking behind the peacock. ‘That’s a baby peacock! I’ve never seen a baby peacock before. What do you call female peacocks, again?’ I ask, looking at its brown – and far less interesting – mother.
    ‘Peahens?’ Joe says.
    ‘Yeah, something like that.’
    ‘If a peacock is a male and a peahen is a female, what’s the generic term for them?’ Joe asks. ‘Pea?’
    I start to giggle. ‘I have no idea.’
    ‘I’m going to look that up one day,’ he says.
    ‘I thought I was the brainiac?’ I tease.
    ‘I can’t stand this for much longer,’ he says, pushing away another chicken.
    ‘You’ve got to admit, though, they are quite attractive hens. If I was going to own a hen, I’d want it to look like that.’
    ‘If I still know you in ten years’ time, I’ll buy you one.’
    I smile. ‘Why ten years? Why not two years?’
    ‘You’ll still be at university in two years’ time. I’m not sure your room-mates would appreciate the gesture.’
    ‘True. Anyway, I like the sound of ten years.’ My heart clenches. ‘We will still know each other in ten years’ time, won’t we?’
    ‘We’d better,’ he replies. His smile fades and he kisses me. ‘Come on, let’s go for a walk before the