‘My thirties are on hold until I’ve got my future worked out,’ I told Daniel, and even though he threw me that eye-rolling, ironic expression he does when he thinks I’m being over dramatic, he didn’t say anything else, and he helped me drown my sorrows along with four of the day’s unsold chocolate eclairs.
So, here I am, no further forward with my job hunt and booted out of the bakery because I’m in the way even there.
Trying to think positively, I tell myself it’s only been ten days since I sent out my CV and there may be news on the way. I just have to be patient and keep scanning the job alerts online, but what do I do in the meantime? I can’t just potter around the house all day.
I decide I’ll make something nice for Mum and Dad’s dinner so it’s waiting for them at three when they’re done. They eat so early in the afternoon. In fact everything in our house runs three hours ahead of real time. I look through the cupboards. Bolognese? No, lasagne.
My preparations are cut short by the doorbell and a letter that needs to be signed for. I bring it inside and tear into it, feeling a little buzz of nervous energy as I pull out the papers asking myself why a library or a bookshop would send an invitation to a job interview by recorded delivery.
That’s when I notice it’s not for me at all. It’s for Mum and Dad, and it’s from that big developer, the company that built New Start Village and bought up Daniel’s parents’ clothes shops. They’ve been trying to buy as many of the shops on the high street as they can. The greengrocer and the post office have already been redeveloped (now they’re a trendy barber shop and a bottled craft ale place with flats above), and here they are offering Mum and Dad a whopping amount of cash forourshop and house.
Further to our discussions, we await your response to the offer of £250,000 for your premises, to include Crawley and Son Bakers and the three-bedroom apartment above. Cash transfer will take place on 13th August dependent upon return of the enclosed paperwork, signed and witnessed, and with it your agreement that all occupants will leave the property vacant within one calendar month of signing.
I read it again just to be sure. ‘Ourdiscussions?’ Mum and Dadknowabout this? I know they’ve been talking about retiring for a while now, but selling the bakery and our home in one fell swoop?
Staggering to the sofa, I’ve already started berating myself for being cross. I should be pleased for them, and I am – well, I will be in a minute, once I catch my breath.
This is their ‘out’, the opportunity to retire they’ve been waiting for. If they sell up, for the first time in their lives they won’t be phenomenally skint in spite of grafting every day except Sundays for thirty-three years.
They won’t have to look across the street at the long queue snaking out of Greggs at lunch times, agonising over whether sticking to making Grandad’s lovely traditional bakes was really a good idea.
They can take all those holidays they’ve always talked about but never been on. Come to think of it, Katie from the travel agent did drop round a ‘winter sun’ brochure the other day and I thought it was weird at the time.
No more three a.m. get-ups for the pair of them. Dad’s forever saying how much harder it is to face the alarm clock in the morning, especially in winter.
I turn over the letter in my hands, along with the formal-looking paperwork that’s attached. No need to take it downstairs to show Mum and Dad right this second. They’re busy, and I know what they’ll decide anyway. They’re going to grab this opportunity and go for it, start living for themselves as opposed to living to work.
I pull Gran’s old blanket over me on the sofa and curl up on my side, thinking of her words, ‘you mustliveyour life’.
It seems events are conspiring to shove me out of my cosy nest, my comfort zone. I feel likeAlice Through the Looking Glassand everything is sickeningly distorted and out of reach. Maybe if I close my eyes for a while, when I wake up things will be back to the way they were, with me and Gran together again in our gingerbread-scented home, and all our routines running like clockwork – predictable, cosy, and safe.
Chapter Five
I didn’t go down to the bakery this morning. Mum said I should probably have a lie-in after our long talk last night. They both stayed up ’til gone nine – which is unheard of for my parents – and Dad wanted to finish the bottle of bubbly he’d bought to celebrate signing the paperwork.
At first I couldn’t face a glass but as they chatted about all the things they’d planned to do but put on hold over the years, and Mum’s eyes shone under the kitchen lights, and Dad burst into happy, relieved tears twice, I couldn’t help get swept up in it too.
None of us talked about where I’d live or what I’d end up doing after the sale. I think Mum and Dad assumed it went without saying I’d be welcome to move in with them, but there was a hint of strain in the air at the unsaid words.
Maybe they were waiting for me to say, ‘Guess what, you guys, I’m moving out – I’ve got a flat and a job lined up!’ but that wouldn’t be true, so we all just kept sipping the bubbly and when I came back from changing into my PJs I caught them waltzing around the kitchen even though there wasn’t any music. They were laughing together quietly, giggling almost, and communicating all their excitement for the future with their eyes. I sneaked off to my room, leaving them to their celebrations.
So now I’m in bed, the summer morning light is harsh on my tired eyes even with the blinds shut and there’s a horrible drilling sound coming from somewhere outside. I stumble out of bed to see what’s going on, only to find a hardhat-wearing bloke up a ladder immediately beneath my window fixing a sign to the outside wall. If I crane my neck I can make out the words.
Acquired by New Start Developers
Opening this Christmas: Luxury Vaping Supplies Store
Rental flats above: Three self-contained designer units to let
They don’t hang about, do they? In a matter of months the only home I’ve known will be gutted and partitioned off to make a new shop, three teensy flats and a tonne of cash for New Start Property Developers.
I don’t expect the big sobbing sound that erupts from somewhere under my heart and at first I’m startled to hear it over the relentlessness of the workman’s drill. I’m all for plonking myself down where I’m standing and just howling like an injured wolf, but my mobile’s ringing.
‘Gran?’ I answer, not even looking at the number. It’s almost time for our ten a.m. chat so who else is it going to be?
‘Judith?’
It’s not Gran. Of course: she’s got a cookery lesson today. ‘Who’s this?’ I’ve said the words when it clicks. I know exactly who it is even though this is the very first time they’ve ever rung this number. It’s Mack, and he sounds gentle and quiet, speaking almost in a whisper.
