“I think they’re Mongolian. Anyway, that’s what everyone glamps in. Yurts, or retro caravans, or shepherd’s huts…something different.”
“Well, how much are they?” Dad looks unenthusiastic. “Because Dave’s doing me a very good deal—”
“Dad!” I cry, exasperated. “No one will come and glamp in cut-price tents from Dave Yarnett! Whereas if you bought some yurts, made them look nice, put up some bunting, cleared up the yard…”
I survey the landscape with a new eye. I mean, the view is spectacular. The land stretches away from us, green and lush, the grass rippling in the breeze. I can see, in the distance, the sun glinting on our little lake. It’s called Fisher’s Lake, and we used to row on it. We could buy a new rowing boat. Kids would love it. Maybe a rope swing. We could have fire pits…barbecues…an outdoor pizza oven, maybe….
I can see the potential. I can actually see the potential.
“Well, I’ve already told Dave I’m ordering ten tents,” says Dad, and I feel a spike of frustration, which somehow I squash down.
“Fine.” I down my drink and force a smile. “Do it your way.”
—
It’s not till later that afternoon that the subject comes up again. Biddy’s preparing potatoes for tomorrow and I’m icing the gingerbread men she made this morning. We’ll put them on the Christmas tree later. I’m utterly engrossed, piping tiny smiles and bow ties and buttons, while Christmas hits play through the stereo. The table is Formica-topped, and the chairs are dark green painted wood with dated oak-leaf cushions. Above us is hanging the blue glittery decoration that we’ve hung up every year since I was ten and saw it for sale in a garage. It couldn’t be less Livingetc, but I don’t care. I feel warm and snug and homey.
“Katie,” says Biddy suddenly, in a low voice, and I look up in surprise. “Please, love. You know what your dad’s like. He’ll buy these wretched tents and open up and it’ll be a disaster….” She puts her potato peeler down. “But I want this to work. I think it can work. We’ve got the money to invest; now’s the time….”
Her cheeks are faintly pink and she has a determined look about her that I don’t often see.
“I agree.” I put down my icing bag. “It’s an amazing site, and there’s definitely demand. But you need to do it right. And maybe I don’t have time to be a partner, but I still want to help….” I shake my head. “But I really don’t want to see you throw money away on cheap tents.”
“I know!” Biddy looks anguished. “I know! We don’t know what’s right, and your dad can be so obstinate….”
I meet eyes with her sympathetically. This is an understatement. My dad fixes onto a viewpoint—whether it’s the tube is full of terrorists or alpacas will make our fortune—and it’s practically impossible to budge him.
Then, to my surprise, I suddenly hear Demeter’s voice in my head: You need a bit of tenacity.
She’s right. What’s the point of being the only member of the family with experience in marketing and not speaking out? If I don’t at least try to talk Dad round, then I’m being feeble.
“OK,” I say. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Who are you going to talk to?” Dad comes in, holding the Radio Times, looking merry.
“You,” I say briskly. “Dad, you have to listen to me. If you’re going to open a glamping business, it has to be cool. It has to be…” I search for the right word. “Hip. Authentic. Not crappy tents from Dave Yarnett.”
“I’ve told Dave I’m buying them now.” Dad looks sulky.
“Well, un-tell him! Dad, if you buy those tents, you’re just throwing away money. You need to have the right image, or no one will come. I work with successful businesses, OK? I know how they operate.”
“You need to listen to Katie!” Biddy cries. “I knew we were getting it wrong! We’re buying yurts, Mick, and that’s the end of it. Tell us what else we need, Katie.”
She pulls out a notebook from the kitchen table drawer, and I see Glamping written on it in Biro.
“OK. I think if you’re going to do this, you should do it high-end. Really high-end. Do food…put on activities…make this a luxury glamping resort for families.”
“A resort?” Dad looks taken aback.
“Why not? You’ve got the space, you’ve got the resources, Biddy’s had experience in catering….”
“But not in the rest of it, love.” Biddy looks worried.
“I’ll give you pointers. The more luxury you go, the higher prices you can charge, the more profit you’ll make.”
“High prices?” Biddy looks even more anxious.
“People love high prices,” I say confidently.
“What?” Dad looks skeptical. “I think you’re wrong there, love.”
“I’m not! It’s prestige pricing. They see the prices and they think it must be good. If you’ve got some money to invest, high-end is the way to go. You’ll need luxury tents, for a start.” I count off on my fingers. “Yurts or tepees or whatever. And proper beds. And…” I search around in my mind for things I’ve seen on Instagram. “High thread count.”
My dad and Biddy exchange looks. “What count?”
“Thread count. Sheets.”
Biddy still looks baffled. She and my dad use the duvet sets that Biddy brought when she moved in. They’re cream and spriggy and date from the 1980s. I have no idea what thread count they are, probably zero.
“Biddy, we’ll go online and I’ll show you. Thread count is essential.” I try to impress this on her. “You need four hundred, at least. And nice soap.”
“I’ve got soap.” Dad looks proud of himself. “Job lot from the Factory Shop. Thirty bars.”
“No!” I shake my head. “It has to be some kind of local handmade organic soap. Something luxury. Your customers want to have London in the country. Like, rustic, but urban rustic.”
I can see Biddy writing down London in the country.
“You’ll need to put some showers in one of the barns,” I add.
Dad nods. “We’ve thought of that.”
One of his skills is plumbing, so I’m not too worried about that—as long as he doesn’t choose some terrible knockoff sanitary ware in bilious green.
Another idea hits me. “And maybe you should have an outside shower for summer. That would be amazing.”
“An outside shower?” My dad looks appalled. “Outside?”
Dad’s pride and joy is his Jacuzzi, which he bought secondhand and installed himself when we had some government-rebate windfall. His idea of a top relaxing evening is to sit in his Jacuzzi, drinking one of his homemade cocktails and reading the Daily Express. He’s not really an outside shower type of guy.
I nod. “Definitely. With wooden screens. Maybe with a wooden pail that drenches you, or something?”
“A wooden pail?” Dad looks even more horrified.
“It’s what they want.” I shrug.
“But you just said they want to be urban! Make up your mind, Katie!”
“They do and they don’t.” I’m struggling to explain. “They want nice soap, but they want to use it looking at the sky, listening to cows. They want to feel rural…but not actually be rural.”
“They sound like bloody lunatics.”
“Maybe.” I shrug again. “But they’re lunatics with money.”
The phone rings, and Dad answers. I can see Biddy diligently writing down thread count, handmade soap, cows.
“Hello? Oh yes. The scented logs? Of course. Let me just look in the order book….”
“Scented logs?” I say in an undertone to Biddy.
“It’s a new thing I’m doing,” she replies. “Pine-scented logs for Christmas. We’re selling them in bundles. You infuse them with pine oil. It’s very easy.”
“That’s clever!” I say admiringly.
“It’s gone quite well.” Biddy blushes. “Very popular.”
“Well, you can sell them to the glampers. And your jam. And your gingerbread biscuits. And give them your homemade granola for breakfast….”
The more I think about it, the more I think Biddy will be the perfect hostess for a bunch of glampers. She even has apple cheeks, like a proper farmer’s wife.