I return with the drinks and Lucas is getting a little more anxious now. The judges take their places and the lights are dimmed once more.
The compère takes the mic. ‘In no particular order, the poets through to the next round are . . .’
He reels off some names and there’s clapping and cheering from the audience. Lucas grows quieter, paler. I dig my fingernails into my palms.
‘ . . . and the final place goes to Lucas Dacre.’
Aurora and I cheer loudly and Lucas grins shyly. The poets are called to the stage one at a time and they’re all good. Each one of them seems to have upped their game and I’m nervous for Lucas. He looks nervous for himself too.
Eventually, it’s his turn. He wipes his palms on his jeans and whispers, ‘Wish me luck,’ as he heads into the spotlight.
Lucas stands at the microphone again and takes a couple of steadying breaths before saying, ‘This one’s for Molly.’ He glances up at me through the heavy curtain of his fringe and my heart tightens. ‘“The Laws of Chaos”.’
Every action I take;
every movement I make,
has a universal consequence
riding in its wake.
Every tree that I shake;
every twig that I break,
puts the intricately interwoven
balance at stake.
Each innocuous flake;
every tremulous quake,
has a repercussion for
the environment’s sake.
So every species we slake,
our existence we forsake;
not to appreciate this law
will be our final mistake.
Again, he seems to have the most enthusiastic applause from the audience, but I may just be biased. Now we have an anxious wait while the judges confer. There’s some heated debate going on. Then, after a few minutes, the compère steps up to the mic and announces, ‘The winner of the King’s Arms Poetry Slam with a slot at the prestigious Green Scene Literary Festival is . . .’ Agonisingly lengthy theatrical pause. ‘Lucas Dacre!’
Lucas looks at me in shock.
‘You’ve done it,’ I say. ‘You’ve done it!’
Stunned, he goes to the stage and they give him a trophy. He looks at it as if it’s an unexploded bomb.
‘Thanks,’ he says and then stares at the audience as if it’s the first time he’s seen them. For once, he’s completely lost for words, so comes off the stage.
‘I knew you could do it,’ Aurora tells him.
I don’t think that I’ve ever seen Lucas grin so widely. Everyone starts to drift away and we follow. Out on the street, Lucas and Aurora are still hand-in-hand.
‘I’ll go and get the truck and come back to pick you up.’ That will give them a few minutes alone together without me playing gooseberry.
‘Aurora’s going to drive me home,’ Lucas says.
‘Oh.’
‘Have you got a problem with that?’
‘Er . . . no. Of course not.’ In truth, I feel slightly put out that he’s not coming in the truck with me, but remind myself that this is part of letting go. Why wouldn’t he want to be with his girlfriend? He clearly dotes on her. Coming back to the caravan with me for celebratory tea and toast probably holds little appeal.
‘We might stop off at her place,’ he says. ‘Don’t wait up.’
He’s sixteen. Do I give him a curfew? Would that embarrass him in front of Aurora? Would it embarrass me? Where’s Shelby when I need his advice?
There’s no doubt that Lucas is as pleased as punch and glowing. Tonight has given him such a boost of confidence. He deserves to have fun with someone his own age.
‘I’m so proud of you,’ I tell him.
‘Thanks.’ Bashful again. ‘I’m pretty proud of myself.’
‘So you should be.’ As I prepare to leave them to their own devices, I say as nonchalantly as possible, ‘Can I tell your dad?’
‘No,’ he answers.
And that’s pretty much the end of that.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
So I head to the car park, find the truck and drive home alone. I’m buzzing and I wonder what it feels like to perform on stage and then come off feeling high and invincible. How do you come down from that? I think of Shelby and am sad that I couldn’t be there for him. As soon as I’m home, I’ll text him to find out how he got on.
Hope Farm is in darkness as I approach, but a security light flicks on as I get to the gate and the dogs start to bark. I park, and as soon as I open the caravan door, they all mug me, bouncing up and down as if they’ve been abandoned for years.
‘Calm down,’ I say. ‘I’m home now.’
Before I make tea or text Shelby, I should take them out across the fields. If they’ve been cooped up for a few hours, they’ll need to run off some steam or they’ll be restless all night.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘Let me put my warm coat on and then I’ll be with you.’
So I pull on my coat, kick off my trainers and don my boots. Within minutes, I’m striding across the fields and, as always, my soul settles. The night is bright and clear and, in the bottom of the vale, frost tips the skeletal branches of the trees. There’s a cloud above the dogs from their warm breath. On our way back, I call into the barn to check on everyone else. They’re all tucked up and asleep, only a few of my charges rousing as we go in. I stand and watch them all snuffle and wriggle for space in their sleep. This is how it should be and this is where I should be. I’m not one for crowded pubs or swanky parties. I’m happiest when I’m here, straw in my hair and mud on my boots.
When we go back to the caravan and the dogs are settled once more, I text Shelby. Hope you had a fabulous opening night. Thinking of you. Call me. M xx.
I make a cuppa, get ready for bed and stress that Lucas isn’t home yet. It’s nearly one o’clock and it’s not long before I have to get up again. I hope that nothing’s happened to them. More specifically, that they’re not upside down in a ditch somewhere. I chew at my fingernails. Should I call him? I don’t want him to feel that I’m checking up on him but, of course, I do want to check up on him. I stare at the phone willing it to ring – with either Shelby or Lucas at the other end – but it doesn’t.
I read, but keep the light low with the hope that I might slip into sleep but, as soon as I start to snooze, every little noise jolts me awake. Finally, just before 3 a.m. the dogs go barmy and I assume that Lucas has finally come home. I lift up the curtain on my window, just in time to see him vaulting over the gate. He waves to Aurora as she flicks her headlights and then reverses away down the track.
He crosses the yard, a spring in his step despite the hour. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to have him home. It took me all my strength not to ring him earlier.
The door bangs and I hear him murmuring to the dogs. Then he’s outside my bedroom door.
‘I know you’re not asleep, Mols.’
‘No.’ He knows me too well. I put the light on and he opens the door. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah.’ Lucas comes to sit on the edge of my bed. His face is flushed and his eyes are bright. I hope this is only to do with his success at the poetry slam, but I can’t be sure. He does look really very happy. His hair was artfully tousled before, but you should see it now.