Dad would be digging in the vegetable garden and mum would be pegging out handwashed laundry.
I would think of a big brown teapot on the back of the Rayburn stove.
The tea would be well stewed.
But it won't be emptied and refilled until I arrive.
I would have got an earlier bus, rushed up the hill and would be listening out for their sounds from the garden gate.
I would not quite see them at first.
But I would hear a spade chunking through soil and a rattle of clothes pegs.
I would think I was clever arriving so early.
But not as clever as they.
For they would know me better than I do.
Mum would have already put new teabags into the pot, kettle on and three mugs in a row.
The kettle would just be coming up to boil, murmuring softly.
Mum would look up from the drippy washing and smile at me.
I would hear bold whistling and clump of feet as dad would march around the corner, spade in one hand and parsnips in the other.
Time for a cup of tea, dad would say, but not double mortgage coffee as it's more like triple now.
I would reply that we can share mortgages, pool them together and buy coffee next time we are in town.
We would laugh together at our you had to be there in joke.
Mum would tell us we are crazy.
I would say that I get it from her.
We would laugh together at our shared joyous madness.
We would all laugh.
It would be okay, not perfect but most definitely okay.
In my heart, somewhere deeper than memories, daydreams and reality, we would always do things together.
© Berenice Dunford, June 2024