‘May I ask whether Morgan has anything to do with your doubts about a return to Wales?’
‘You may ask,’ Nate grinned.
Trevor knew he wouldn’t get much more out of him. ‘You’ll miss your workshop when you go home.’
‘I will. No room for one back in Wales. But that’s okay; I think I’d work better here anyway.’ Already, he knew he’d miss being able to head out there of an evening when he had a few spare hours.
‘Not the same though, is it? You know, inspiration can strike at the most inconvenient times.’
‘You want me to come home.’
‘Nate, I would never ask you to do that. And I just told you to do what you need to, not to let me or your mother’s memory be a deciding factor.’
‘You’d love it if I said I was moving back,’ Nate teased.
And Trevor was doing his best to pretend that wasn’t what he wanted. He was a good dad, never pressured, never felt his son owed him. ‘Your mum and I had the same approach to parenting. She always said we could give you roots and wings and if you chose to fly back here then so be it. And if not… well…’
‘Let’s watch this space, shall we? Not make any decisions now, let things unfold.’
In only a short space of time, he’d felt at home in the village in a way he hadn’t since his mum died, as though he’d had to immerse himself in it once again and learn to be in the world where she no longer existed rather than avoiding it.
‘If I did move back here, it’d be an upheaval. I’d have to sell my house and the plumbing business – my client base is worth a bit.’
‘I’m sure it is. But I’d say you’ve got the start of a client base here already if that’s a worry. You’ve got Sebastian, Betty, Jeremy and that’s without advertising.’
‘Except your word-of-mouth advertising, eh, Dad.’
They took the mugs over to the sink.
‘I heard you fixed a shelf for Morgan too.’
‘Not the same thing at all,’ he laughed. ‘But word sure travels fast.’
‘She’ll be back son.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
His dad went over to one of the cupboards and pulled out peanuts, raisins, some kind of seeds and emptied them into a bowl before taking a block of lard from the fridge.
‘That had better not be dinner,’ Nate grimaced.
‘It’s a cake.’
‘An edible one?’
‘A bird cake.’ Trevor unwrapped the block of lard. ‘Don’t think I haven’t spotted the bird table – there were a few summer visitors, chaffinches at my guess, squabbling over whatever you’d put in there.’
Nate smiled. ‘Do you like it?’
Trevor stopped what he was doing. ‘I really like it. I’d forgotten we had one years ago and it was good to see the birds gathering around it when I was out in the garden. It brought back some very fond memories. And your mum would approve too.’
He thought of how he’d felt when he’d hung it from the branch, far enough in that it was on a strong part of the trunk. He could remember watching the birds with his mum when he was a little boy, her lifting him up so he could put food on the table for their garden visitors.
And as they laughed, making the revolting recipe that Nate thanked heavens wasn’t going to be served for dinner, Nate looked out at the garden, all the space, the open surrounds beyond the back of the house, another part of the village he’d not really acknowledged until this visit. It was as though in the years since losing his mum, he’d had his eyes partially shut or at least his blinkers on.
He wouldn’t say anything to Trevor. But in that moment, laughing with his dad, Nate made a firm decision.
It was time he sold up in Wales and moved back to Little Woodville.
