The train was delayed by forty minutes. Then a further twenty. Then a further ten, for reasons the conductor described as operational difficulties, which I have always suspected is code for we have absolutely no idea. I spent the journey wedged between a man who was eating something that smelled aggressively of fish and a woman whose phone was playing a podcast at a volume that suggested she wanted the entire carriage to benefit from it.
I am tired. I am slightly headachy. I am standing on a garden path in the gathering dusk, looking at a front door I have been dreading all day.
I’m wearing a shirt. And a beige sweater. My trousers are beige. I’m probably still not beige enough for my mother.
The sky, at least, is doing something spectacular. All deep orange and pink at the edges, the kind of sunset that looks painted. The kind that would be genuinely beautiful if I were anywhere else looking at it.
I take a breath of cool evening air. Right. Okay.
I ring the doorbell.
My mother opens the door before the sound has even finished. She looks me up and down in one swift, comprehensive sweep that takes in my hair, my jacket, my shoes, and my general existence, and finds all of it wanting.
“You look tired,” she says, which is her version of hello.
“Nice to see you too, Mum.”
“Come in, come in.” She steps back and waves me through with the urgency of someone trying to get a large, embarrassing object off the street before the neighbours notice. “Don’t stand there on the step.”
I step inside. The house smells like roasting meat and furniture polish and the particular floral air freshener she has used for as long as I can remember. It smells like childhood. Not entirely in a good way.
“You’re early,” she says, closing the door firmly behind me. “Your father isn’t down yet. James and Priya aren’t here yet either. Your aunt and uncle are in the sitting room.” She’s already moving towards the dining room, heels clicking on the parquet. “Come and help me with the napkins.”
So I find myself sitting at the dining room table, which has been laid with the good china and the tall candles and the napkins that apparently require folding. My mother demonstrates the fold she wants. It’s elaborate. It takes several tries before she’s satisfied with mine. She watches me fold napkins with the expression of someone enduring a significant inconvenience.
“Did you get a haircut?” she asks.
“No.”
She makes a sound.
“James got a promotion,” she says, not looking up from her own napkin.
“I know. You mentioned it.”
“Senior analyst. At his age.”
“Mm.”
“He’s also thinking about buying a house. In Clifton.” She says Clifton the way other people say Paris. “He and Priya have been looking at a lovely Victorian terrace.”
“That’s great for them.”
She gives me a look. The look. “Are you still at that coffee shop?”
“Yes.”
“And the flat? Your uncle is coming back in April.”
“I know, Mum.”
“So you’ll need to sort something out.”
“I know.”
“I’m just saying.”
She’s always just saying. She has been just saying for as long as I can remember and she will be just saying until one of us dies and possibly beyond that, knowing her.
