My brother arrives as I’m getting ready – my windows face on to the driveway and he’s visible in the driver’s seat of my dad’s pale blue 1960s Austin Healey, his head just peeking over the steering wheel.
He loves that car like nobody’s business. Dad sometimes lets him take it for a gentle spin at the learner drivers’ track at the airfield a couple of miles away, but it’s unlikely that Michael would ever get his licence.
Mum is standing over the hob when I walk into the kitchen and the aromas coming from the oven make my stomach rumble. When she sees me, she switches off the heat under the gravy she’s been stirring and turns around, her face lit up with excitement.
‘Come with me,’ she says with a grin.
‘What is it?’ I ask curiously as she ushers me out the back door and calls over to my dad, who’s on the driveway talking to Michael.
Michael sees us through the windscreen and presses the horn three times. Dad theatrically flinches and covers his ears as he staggers backwards.
My brother is laughing at my dad’s antics as he gets out of the car.
‘Baby sis!’ he shouts, coming forward for a hug.
‘Hello you,’ I say warmly as he rocks me back and forth.
He’s in a great mood today. We caught up with each other on Friday night when he came over for my welcome-home dinner, but I was late and he was hungry and extremely grouchy. His ex-girlfriend has got a new boyfriend, apparently. Michael no longer fancies her, but he still considers the act a betrayal.
‘Mum and Dad have got a surprise for you,’ he says in a sing-song voice, grinning up at me.
He’s only five foot tall to my five foot seven inches. I was twelve when I snuck past him on the height chart stuck to the kitchen wall of our London house.
‘Have they?’ I glance at our parents.
‘Ta-da!’ Dad exclaims, throwing his arms towards the greenhouse.
Mum mimics him exactly and then Michael follows suit. It’s a sweetly ridiculous picture, the three of them acting like synchronised game show hosts.
I stare at the greenhouse with confusion. It’s made of brick with a sloping glass ceiling and French doors, and for a moment, I don’t know what I’m supposed to be reacting to.
But then I realise that the old white brickwork has been painted a lovely smoky-green colour and the windows and ceiling glass are sparkling clean.
‘We finished the exterior last night while you were at work,’ Mum says proudly. ‘But we’ve been renovating the interior for weeks.’
Michael bounces on the spot as Dad opens up the French doors, indicating for me to take a closer look inside.
Shelves have been fixed to the bright-white walls, and gleaming terracotta tiles cover the floor. Cacti and succulents in concrete pots of varying sizes are scattered around the edges of the room.
‘We thought you could display your work on the shelves,’ Mum says.
‘And you can store your tools in here,’ Dad adds, opening one of the drawers of a free-standing metal unit.
‘It’s a studio,’ I say in a daze.
My parents have created an artist’s studio for me, a place of my very own to work from.
‘We modelled it on the one at the Barbara Hepworth Museum. Do you love it?’ Mum asks hopefully.
I nod slowly. ‘It’s absolutely beautiful. Thank you.’
She claps her hands with glee and Michael beams at her, then at me.
My throat feels tight and my eyes prickle. I’m beyond touched. So much effort has gone into this studio, and I feel the searchlight beams of their love for me shining in my direction. It’s blinding. It’s too much.
How will I ever tell them about London?
I feel a deep ache inside my chest for Gran. She’s the only person who I know would have understood.
