For now, all I want to do is crash and get used to being back.
~
With nothing in the studio apartment, I make my way out to grab a coffee and some breakfast, and maybe a change of clothes before I go to see Mum.
The last time I was back in the UK, it was a flying visit. And before that, it was RLC training. When did everything turn into cafes and eateries? I choose one of the branded coffee shops and order a bacon sandwich and coffee, grabbing a paper from the rack.
The headlines don’t mean a lot, but a few pages in, there’s an article that makes me smile.
‘Broderick Media CEO under scrutiny’. I scan the lines which seem aimed at Ivy’s brother, by all accounts. Rumours and questions over some of the more recent takeovers and business dealings. Plus, allegations from past employees.
Articles like this can be par for the course for such a big company, but I can bet Ivy doesn’t like their name in the press for these reasons.
I toy with the idea of calling her, but push it away for now.
Folding up the paper, I take a sip of my coffee, relishing the taste. I've forgotten the simple indulgence of a good morning cup of coffee, having been all over the world these past years. There were places to get coffee in Kabul, but they were limited. The popular choice was tea, so it was a luxury along with beer. Unlike here, where it seems to have become the national drink.
Following the main road towards the centre, I stop at the first men’s store and make quick work of buying a new pair of jeans, a couple of casual shirts and T-shirts and a few other essentials.
I’m back at the apartment, showered, changed, and heading back towards the underground in under an hour. I’ve switched up my camera bag, taking out some of the lenses, but keep the Canon EOS 5DS to hand. You never know when you’ll come across the perfect shot.
~
The taxi pulls into the small, gravelled drive off of a country lane. I grew up in this house. It's half an hour from the centre of Brighton. Green fields surround the cottage, tucked behind a wild garden at the front, shielding the house from the quiet road. But the garden is not how I remember. There’s no riot of colour and flowers. It's now home to brambles and weeds strangling the dying roses and other plants.
The taxi leaves, and I knock on the door. There’s every chance that she won’t be home, but something tells me that’s not the case.
A frail woman, her hair now completely silver, eventually answers. Her face shifts to one of stern annoyance. “What are you doing here?” She turns and makes her way back into the house before I can answer. I follow, careful with my steps. I sense this might be just as dangerous as navigating out in Helmand province.
“I told you I was coming back. I flew in yesterday, and I wanted to come and visit.”
“Huh. Well, you proved me wrong," she spits, as she eases herself into a chair next to the bay window overlooking the garden of weeds. At least the inside of the house seems to be in better repair than the outside.
I don’t take a seat, but I do place my bag down. “Can I make myself a cup of tea? I see you have one.” I glance at the china cup on the small table located next to her chair.
“Help yourself. If you can remember where everything is.” I let the comment slide. There’s no point in arguing when she's like this. My mother is a stubborn woman. A proud one, too, so seeing her look so … old is a shock.
“I’m sure I can manage, Mum.” I go to the kitchen and set about putting the kettle onto the Aga. The cupboards I open are pretty bare, but there’s a stock of tea and sugar. The fridge doesn’t look much better. The whistle of the kettle pulls me from the realisation that perhaps I’ve been away for too long and neglected my responsibilities as a son. After all, who else does she have?
By the time I return with my tea, Mum is dozing in her chair, her own cup untouched. The time I’ve been gone is easy to see on her face. Deep furrows and lines now crowd her features. I unzip my bag and pull out my camera and quickly capture her at peace. The light filtering through the net curtains creates a halo effect that will look striking in black and white.
I go back to the front garden and take a few shots of the sprawl of plantsencroaching on the house.
“Who are you? What are you doing snooping around?” An old man calls from the adjoining house.
“Mr Graham?” I try. The old couple have lived next door for years.
“Blake? Is that you?” He leaves his side of the property and walks around into the wild side. “Blake. Good to see you. Are you back then?”
“Ah, just visiting today.”
His bushy eyebrows raise, and I see the purse of his lips. “I see.”
“Is there a problem, Mr Graham?”
“Well, I’m surprised you have to ask. Just look at this,” he stands, gesturing to the garden we’re standing in. “And it’s not just this. Olivia isn’t well. She needs help, but you know how she is.”
“I’m aware of how stubborn my mother can be.”
