“I’ve been getting your room ready,” Emily said as she turned back to her mum with genuine cheer. “I had quite a few of your things—that crochet blanket you made a few years ago? And some of your books on pottery.”
“I did like pottery,” Naomi mused.
That, along with a lot of other things, had been one of her mother’s phases. “There’s a few of the vases you made as well,” Emily said. “I’ve put them in the window. You have a lovely view of the meadow, and the Lea River beyond. I know it’s not London, but I’ve come to enjoy living in the country.”
“I think country living suits you,” Naomi said unexpectedly, and Emily looked at her in surprise. Her mother so rarely took any sort of interest in her life.
“Do you?” she asked.
“Yes, you seem more relaxed, despite all this.” Naomi gestured around the room, encompassing everything that had happened to both of them. “You were always so anxious, Emily. I suppose that’s at least partly, if not all, my fault.” Naomi sighed, and Emily sensed her retreating, as if that engaged part of herself were sinking back into the swamp of her lethargy.
“I have been anxious,” she said quickly. “It’s true. And controlling. But I’m learning not to be, and that is definitely a good thing.” With a self-conscious smile she willed her fists to unclench.
“Well, that’s something good, then,” Naomi said after a moment. “But I don’t know if country living will suit me. When your father took me out to Reading, I felt like part of my soul started to wither. He never understood.” She turned to look out the window, a sad smile curving her lips.
“I didn’t know that.” Her mother never spoke about her failed marriage, how she’d walked out of the family home one evening and hadn’t returned for three days. Or so Emily’s father had said; Emily couldn’t remember it herself. Perhaps she’d blocked it out. She perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for more, but Naomi stayed silent. “What happened, Mum?” she asked after a long, still moment. “Between you and Dad?”
“It’s not his fault.” Naomi’s voice was distant. “The truth is, I never should have married him. I wanted someone to steady me, but it wasn’t fair to ask another person to do that for me.”
“Steady you…?”
“Yes.” Naomi turned back to Emily. “You can’t know how it feels, to know you’re out of control and unable to help it. To crave a feeling you know could destroy you. To feel like your life is never your own.”
“I didn’t realise…” It had never occurred to Emily that her mother might fight against her condition. Sometimes it seemed as if she wasn’t even aware of it. And yet here she was, lucid and honest and full of weary despair. “I’m sorry.”
“So am I. I know I’ve put you through a lot.”
“It wasn’t your fault, and it made me stronger.” Emily knew she couldn’t be angry with her mother for the way she was, the way her own life had been. It wouldn’t be fair or right. And in this moment, she was thankful, in a strange and unexpected way, for everything that had brought her to this moment, this place, this understanding. “We’re going to get you home soon, Mum,” she said, reaching for Naomi’s hand and giving it a squeeze. “It’s going to be good. Really good.”
On the train ride back to Wychwood, Emily gazed out at the rolling fields streaming by, bursting with buttercups, the grass a vibrant, almost fluorescent green. Sunlight streamed across the meadows, glinting on the puddles still left by the rain. It was all so impossibly beautiful, and it made Emily wonder how she could have ever lived in London, with its grimy streets and choking pollution, everyone busy and uninterested. She’d craved that once, but she didn’t anymore. Now she was really looking forward to getting back to Wychwood, even if the thought of Owen, and his absence in her life, made her heart feel as if it were being wrung in her chest.
She faltered in her step as she passed the village green and saw the big, black-and-white “for sale” sign outside The Drowned Sailor. What would Owen do without the pub? It felt as if it were part of him as well as part of the village, his very lifeblood. It saddened her that she couldn’t even talk to him about it; he didn’t want her to. In the week since they’d had their last conversation, Owen hadn’t reached out at all. They weren’t going to date and it didn’t seem like they could be friends, either.
As Emily came into Willoughby Close, Olivia popped her head out the door. “How was your visit?” she called.
“It was actually okay.” Emily paused in the courtyard, her keys in her hand. “My mum’s coming back to stay with me for a while next week,” she added. She’d told Ava and Owen, but she hadn’t got around to telling everyone about what was happening. Saying it out loud made it feel more real, more immediate.
“How do you feel about that?” Olivia asked with a look of compassionate concern on her friendly face.
“Better than I expected,” Emily answered honestly. “I love my mum, and I’ve enjoyed her company in the past, but it can be very up and down. I feel more prepared somehow, this time. And I’ve already got a lot of her things here. I’ve been unpacking them, trying to make things welcoming.”
“I saw the pottery in the window. Is that hers?”
“Yes, it is.”
“It’s beautiful. I love the vibrant colours. Is she very artistic, your mum?”
“She is, actually,” Emily said with some surprise. She hadn’t really considered her mother’s wild and
