Page 72 of In the Frame

When the train glides to a stop at my destination, the station’s familiar low brick building, now transformed into another village pub, nearly has me weeping for joy. I disembark, with the strap of the suit bags across my body and a rolling suitcase in each hand.

Out front, my parents’ familiar old Volkswagen’s parked to the side. The van belongs to my dad, and it’s the newer, more reliable family vehicle that can take all six of us. My mum, Letty to just about everyone else, gets out and gives me a big hug, and it’s everything I can do not to break down on her shoulder. She has long ginger hair and a scattering of freckles.

Meanwhile, I feel sick, from everything that’s happened and the lack of sleep. Gazing at her, I could weep real tears if I let myself.

“Matty,” Mum says, giving me another squeeze, “it’s so good to see you. It’s been too long. Though I must say I’m surprised to see you.”

I nod, opening the back hatch and going through the process of laying down the seats and loading in my bags. “I didn’t expect to be back, to be honest. Not like this,” I admit, closing the back.

We get into the car, and she navigates the short drive home in the village not far from our popular pub.

“Well, it’s not actually bad timing, actually, coming in on a Monday,” Mum offers into the silence, glancing over at me. “The pub’s quiet. Your dad’s at work, and the girls are off at school. Ready for some lunch?”

I nod, and my shoulders ease with relief when we pull up through the gate along the gravel lane that leads to our two-story eighteenth-century brick Victorian cottage. It’s on a generous lot with leafy trees and hedges and lavender wisteria, which has grown across the front of the cottage and blooms in the spring, while the entwined climbing rose vines carry fragrant soft pink blooms. The cottage has been extended at the back, and it’s surprisingly roomy. Mum parks in front of the standalone double garage further down the lane beside the cottage. We get out and each take a suitcase, and I sling the suits over my shoulder.

We walk inside moments later. There are the familiar timbered ceilings painted in white, the large casement windows overlooking the lush gardens. My spirits start to lift, and my shoulders ease. I’m finally home. It feels like I’ve been away for a century rather than a few months.

We leave the bags in the entry, and after I freshen up, I join my mum in the kitchen. She already has the kettle on the giant cast-iron AGA stove. I pull out two mugs from the cupboard as Mum fixes up a pot of black tea.

“So, what’s happened, then?” Mum asks at last, giving me a sidelong glance as she waits for the kettle and leans against the counter in the wide galley kitchen. Behind her, the view stretches over the broad garden to the surrounding pastures and rolling hills. “It looks like you’re coming to stay for a while.”

Mum knows me too well to pull off any convincing lie. Not that I want to lie to my mum. “I got sacked from my job.”

She blinks. “Oh? The bartending job?”

“That one,” I agree. “I dropped and broke some expensive champagne. Like a lot of expensive champagne. I… know what I’m doing, usually, but I get so nervous in London. Like everyone can see I’m from a village and they wonder what I’m doing in the city.”

Mum smiles. “No one would know you’re from a village on sight.”

“I think it’s imprinted in my DNA.” It sounds silly out loud, but it feels like a fatal flaw.

She chuckles, pouring the hot water into the teapot. “I think there’s a chance of the village DNA being true. But, listen, darling: this is only a temporary setback. You can find another job. Remember why you went to London in the first place?”

“For my painting?”

“Yes. How’s that going?”

I sigh, drooping as I lean on the counter opposite my mum. I shove my trembling hands into my pockets. “It’s not. I haven’t done anything since leaving Brighton.” And then my expression falls, because I think of the Rose, and Florian, and how everything was so promising there for a while.

She looks surprised. “I thought you were painting, love.”

I shake my head, caught out. “No. I’ve been too busy trying to work and pay rent. I… went to an art event, and I tutored someone briefly in drawing. That’s it. No painting.”

“The tutoring sounds promising,” she encourages. “What happened to the tutoring work?”

“It was a onetime arrangement.”

Mum puts the tea things on a tray. We go over to the broad wooden table at the end of the kitchen, set in a corner with windows on both sides. Sunlight floods the room. She studies me.

Pensive, I chew my lip. “And I met someone, and it didn’t work out.”

Mum’s expression softens. “Ah.”

I bury my head in my hands. The nearby clock on the wall ticks. The window’s wide open for the fresh air, and outside, songbirds continue to sing. I hear the sound of my mum pouring the tea a couple of minutes later, the sound of the spoon against ceramic as she adds sugar to mine. When I lift my head again, a cup’s in front of me and a plate of my mum’s baking, slices of banana bread. “Thanks.”

“Please tell me more about what happened.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “I’ve just felt out of place the whole time I was in London. Like everyone could see I didn’t belong.”