Mum flings the door open before I have a chance to knock.
“We heard the car,” she says, pulling me in for a hug, her body soft and comforting, her arms a little too tight around my body.“Dad’s made room in the garage.”
“It’s fine there for now,” I say, taking Mum in.She’s the same, her gray hair dyed warm brown, clear-rimmed glasses.
“No, it isn’t.Brackley isn’t what it was, I’m telling you.The Clarksons had their electric bikes stolen last month.And Gail saw a flasher at the station.”
“I’ll put your fancy car in,” says Dad, appearing from behind her, reaching out a hand to shake mine.“How much did those cost?”He nods to the Gucci sunglasses on top of my head.
“Not as much as the car,” I say sheepishly, taking his heavy hand in mine.
“Nice of you to turn up,” he says with a wink, as I fish the keys out of my pocket and hold them up for him.
“Nice of you to tidy up for me,” I say, nodding to the overgrown front lawn.
“It’s about your turn, don’t you think?”he says, folding his arms.
Dad.On the one hand, he’s a grounded, salt-of-the-earth type, who has never liked the high-flying life of F1 and whose circle of friends make a sport of mocking rich foot-ballers.And on the other, he’s a massive F1 fan, a trained mechanic who cannot easily hide the huge pride he clearly has for me and Archie.And so, when I’m home, he prods and teases me about my clothes and my cars and my money—his way, I think, of trying to remain a mechanic from Brackley and not the father of Matthew Warner.
He’d never say it, but he’s probably disappointed on some level that I’ve been dropped from Rossini.
Mum’s laughter breaks the banter, and she tugs me inside the house.It’s a strange snapshot of nineties England: huge old tube TV as deep as it is wide; wood-paneled kitchen cabinets.The hallway is a collection of celebrity autographs: signed photo of the Spice Girls (Mum), signed photo of David Beckham (Dad), and signed photo of the Wiggles (me).
Mum has scones laid out on the slate-topped kitchen island, with clotted cream and raspberry jam.Fresh flowers on the kitchen table.The radio plays Elton John softly in the background.Everything is the same as it always has been.Routine, constant, safe.The only thing that is wild and unpredictable in this room is me.
“There’s tea too,” Mum says, pushing the pot with the pink knitted tea cozy in my direction.
“There’s something wrong with the engine in that car.I can hear a rattle when you move to third gear,” Dad says, joining us, sliding onto the stool at the kitchen island opposite.His gray hair is more obvious these days.Still, his eyes are bright as ever, his steely gaze strong and penetrating like he’s always got more to say.Because he surely does.
“You needed three gears to roll her into the garage?”I tease, laughing, knowing he would take her out for a quick run.What he really wants is to get her into the workshop and have a good poke around.It isn’t often someone rolls into his workshop with a vintage Jaguar.
“Maybe you could take a look for him?”Mum suggests, playing along.
“If I have time,” Dad says, reaching for the scones.
Mum gives me a look, rolling her eyes, and I laugh, reaching for the tea, and pour myself a cup.
I accept a scone piled high with cream and jam and take a greedy bite.
“I’m sorry I’ve not been back more,” I say, frowning at Mum.“It was kind of hard to say no to the free holidays the company liked to send us on.”
“That’s okay, love.You’re here now.We just love having you home.”
“I like you at Arden, son,” Dad says, crashing in like he can’t keep the thought in his brain any longer.
I swing my head around to him, cocking it in surprise.“Really?I thought you’d be disappointed.”
“He likesChloe,” Mum explains.“Even if her dad is the local competition.”
“I like her family,” Dad elaborates.“And it isn’t just her, anyway.It’s watching you have to fight again.To build up something.It’s better foryou.”
“There’s a lot to build,” I say.
“Ninth is their best-ever result,” dad counters, enthusiastically.
His delight lifts me a little.“True.It’s not as bad as I thought it might be.I kind of like the battle.”
“And Dad likes Chloe,” Mum whispers again, behind her hand.
