At six o’clock, Isaac pops out to the chippy a few streets away that I spotted driving over here. We eat straight from the paper, savouring the gloriously crisp batter and proper hand-cut chips drenched in vinegar.
With our lower backs griping from the physical work, Isaac and I agree that we’ve done enough in the house for one day. But when Rowan begs his dad to connect up the television, to my amazement, Isaac obliges without complaining. Rowan settles on an ancient episode of Family Guy, and we’ve all just got comfy together on the sofa – a big improvement already on sitting in different rooms at our old house – when the doorbell rings.
I sit bolt upright, startled.
‘Typical!’ Isaac grumbles, getting to his feet. ‘Seems as if we’re not meant to get any rest at all today.’
‘Who is it, Mum?’ Rowan asks, looking worried and muting the television.
‘I don’t know, I haven’t unpacked my crystal ball yet!’ I joke, tickling his belly. As he gets older, he seems to be developing into a bit of a nervous child. He spent a lot of time with Mum before she became really poorly, and she hated unplanned visitors, so maybe that’s the reason.
When Isaac doesn’t return right away, Rowan picks up his Nintendo Switch to fill the space, and I flick idly through the television channels, keeping the sound off. I heard the front door open, but I didn’t hear Isaac say anything. Then the door closed again and now his footsteps thump up the stairs.
He’s up there for about five minutes, and I’m just about to go up and find him when he returns. His face looks pale and he quickly masks a strange expression with a smile that’s just a little too bright and breezy.
‘Sorry. Just popped upstairs for my slippers.’
‘Who was it?’ I ask.
He looks at me, puzzled.
‘At the door?’ I add.
‘Oh, no one. I mean, there was nobody there. Must’ve been kids messing about.’
I frown, but Isaac claps his hands. ‘Right then. Back to Family Guy?’
He takes the remote control from me and changes channels again. I hope this sort of thing isn’t going to happen a lot. Bored kids playing knock-a-door-run. Maybe that’s one of the reasons the last people here got fed up; it’s the sort of thing that can wear you down after a while.
Rowan and I both fall asleep watching television, and an hour later, Isaac wakes us so we can all troop up to bed. When he picks up his phone, face down on the coffee table, I see the screen is full of text notifications.
‘It’s just the football scores,’ he explains, noticing me looking. He slides the phone into his pocket without opening the messages.
Finally in bed, and under the covers, his arm snakes around me and I relax into the warmth of him. He traces his finger down from my shoulder and slides his hand round my waist. Goosebumps prickle the tops of my arms, sending looping shivers down my spine. I can’t remember the last time we held each other this close, skin to skin.
I close my eyes as he shifts closer until I feel the weight of his leg on mine. ‘It’s been a lovely first day in our new home.’
‘Let’s make sure it’s the first lovely day of many,’ he murmurs, nuzzling into my neck. ‘Once I get settled into the job, I’ll have the option to work from home a bit more. I’m aiming to organise my work around our family life. Not the other way around like before.’
The thought of Isaac being around more so we can prioritise our family time is music to my ears. In this moment, I feel so safe and secure in my husband’s arms. I’m relieved and excited that our life together has finally turned a corner. Right now, it feels like it’s truly in my power to leave the past behind.
I allow my heavy eyelids to close, and wonder what Mum would make of our fresh start. Would she find it in her heart to be pleased for us? Would she think I deserved it? I’m not sure about that. She’d no doubt disapprove of something, perhaps how quickly we made the decision to move. That was just the way she was, looking for signs, exaggerating in her head the slightest indication that something was wrong. She passed the curse of it on to me and it resulted in the feeling I’ve always had, of never quite fitting in. It has followed me all through school, and even work.
I think it was selfish of her and I often wonder now if she’d planned that final blow to ensure I end up a sad, bitter old woman like her.
But it’s Isaac’s wise words, spoken on the day Mum died, that echo in my ears: You’ve got to learn to let go of stuff that doesn’t matter. Whatever happened, it’s all in the past. It has no bearing on your own happiness today.
That’s where my focus has to lie. That’s what I have to remind myself of every day to negate Mum’s final bid to destroy any chance I have of living peacefully.
Tomorrow, the three of us will wake up to our new life on Buckingham Crescent, and nobody can take that away from us. Not even her.
Five
The entire weekend is filled with all the usual house-moving tasks, and there hardly seems to be a minute to spare.
I’m immersed in unpacking boxes and allocating the contents to various cupboards, in between washing crockery and glasses. Isaac keeps himself busy putting up curtain rails and fitting blinds upstairs and down.
Rowan is an absolute star, unpacking his boxes of toys without being asked and organising his bedroom. He chose the one overlooking the crescent. ‘So I can see my new friends when they walk by,’ he says.
His ‘new friends’ include a boy around his age he’s seen zooming up and down the street on what Rowan informs me is ‘a top-of-the-range stunt scooter’, and a girl who apparently walked by with her mum and waved at him when she spotted him at the window, he said.
‘You could walk down to the front gate and say hello next time you spot them,’ I suggest, but he doesn’t seem too keen. I’m sure he’ll come out of his shell a bit once he starts his new school.
If I let him, Rowan would spend most of his time on his computer or watching television. But the one exception is that he does love his football: following his beloved Manchester United matches on television or playing in his school team. I’ve done everything I can to encourage his participation in the game and intend to double my efforts now that we’ve moved.
Rowan’s face is sour right now; he’s not at all impressed when Isaac informs him our Sky subscription won’t be up and running for another week yet. We’re busying about so much I barely notice he’s playing non-stop arcade games on his Nintendo Switch.
On Sunday morning, in the interests of limiting his screen time, I spread newspaper over the kitchen table and set up his paints. Rowan is a talented artist and used to love drawing and painting. About a year ago, though, he seemed to lose his interest in creativity and become fixated on playing computer games. This change in routine might just be the opportunity he needs to rekindle his interest.
As the weekend draws inexorably to a close, there’s still so much to do. But on Sunday afternoon, Isaac begins to open yet another large box and then stops, stands up and arches his back, stretching his arms above his head.
‘That’s it. Everyone stop what you’re doing,’ he says in a playfully authoritative tone. ‘I’m calling time. We’re going for a walk.’