𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙴𝙽𝙳 || Original Story

one | change

Ever since I was a child, I had been hindered by the complex art of communication. I could think fluently, write fluently, do things fluently. However, when it came to speaking in the same manner my voice faltered, breaking down like an old scratchy vinyl record. The words would stumble, tripping on thin air, causing a collapse in vocal fluidity and sinking me further into a pool of self-pity.

But in a city as loud as London, I didn't particularly need to speak. The voices of the millions and the city's cacophonies would do it for me, shouting louder than any word I could utter coherently.

Perhaps that's not what I needed. Perhaps I just had to find my own voice where it could be heard, instead of being drowned out by the majority. And I knew exactly where to search.

The countryside was a dramatic change from the city. From bustling streets to quiet grassy lanes; from packed high street retailers to quaint village shops. I'd experienced drastic contrasts like this before, but nothing as permanent as moving house.

Most would be anxious and troubled by the prospect of leaving family and friends behind to venture into unknown territory and start afresh where nobody knows who you are. But not me. This was one of the reasons moving away was so attractive.

My mother pretended I didn't exist (to put it frankly) and would often use the excuse that I was travelling abroad all the time so was never home when in actual fact, I was strolling around nearby Battersea Park or reading alone in one of the house's quieter rooms. She would only make an effort if she had guests to impress or when she was in an abnormally nice mood. Both of which were sickening.

My father and older brother, on the other hand, were a lot kinder to me. They were always busy with our family's business- Bailey's Antiques- that had been running since 1886, but they'd make time for me. And I had never been more appreciative. They were sad to see me go, but understood the circumstances.

It didn't take as long as I thought to find the right place to move. Maplebrook was a wonderfully picturesque village in the north of England (not particularly far from Windermere) and very much appealed to me the instant I saw photographs. Its stone walls tiny shops and tight-knit community seemed very charming.

I arrived in the north by train, hauling two decent-sized suitcases and my beloved, tattered messenger bag. My only means of finding directions to my new home was by following the signs from the outskirts of Maplebrook to its village square, which would have been easier if I wasn't lazy enough to put on my reading glasses. Eventually, I slipped them on once I reached the square (distinguishable by large, centralised grey-stone fountain).

Colourful bunting hung from the old gas lampposts that were dotted around the edges of the square. A group of young children were giggling beside the fountain, dipping their hands into the cold water and splashing one another.

After admiring the scenery for a brief period, I stared in the direction of Church Street, named after (not surprisingly) after the church that was situated more or less on the corner of the street. It was shadowed by the oak trees that were planted in its graveyard, dappling its walls and the stained glass window with little splotches of sunlight.

I was pleasantly surprised to find Church Street teeming with life: there were many people weaving past one another, popping in and out of the shops that populated the old terraces. There was a bakery, a florists, a small newspaper stand, a newsagents, a butchers, and art shop, and a variety of boutiques.

It was lovely, tranquil. Everyone greeted each other with smiles and a brief wave of the hand. I hoped to fit into this small and close community, praying that countryside villages were more accepting and hospitable than the city dwellers I was so used to.

I made my way up the street, trying to ignore the painful ache in my hands from carrying my cases. I needed to find the right person to ask for directions. I needed to muster up the courage to ask first, of course.

Taking a deep breath, I approached a middle-aged man standing outside the florists. He turned to me as I did so, smiling kindly and gazing expectantly, waiting for my question to fall from my lips.

"S-Sorry to b-bother you, s-sir," I began anxiously. "Can you t-tell me where C-Cattle Lane is?"

"Ah!" He exclaimed. "I heard there was someone moving into Old Farm. You look like a lad who won't be causing much trouble."

"N-No, s-sir," I replied, cracking a small smile. "It's n-not my s-scene."

The man pointed to the top of the street where the road forked off into two. "Turn right up there and follow the road. Old Farm is the stone building on the right; you can't miss it."

I nodded my thanks and abided to his directions up to the top end of the street where the road split- the left was a wider road that no doubt led on to the next village and the right was a slightly narrower road.

I trailed up it, puffing and panting, stopping halfway up to rest my weary arms. I was fortunate enough to have 'inherited' the old furniture from Old Farm, furniture that was in good nick and hadn't been sold on. Otherwise I'd have a lot bigger job on my hands.

Old Farm was a lot more spectacular that it appeared to be in the photographs. It was built of white walls, its slightly chipped window panes and doors were white, too, the roof was slate-grey and sported a chimney that I hoped would be functioning.

There was a pebbled path leading from the main road up to the house where there was plenty of room for at least three cars to be parked with a bit of extra space. Two large plant pots stood like soldiers on either side of the pillars that formed the front of the porch, the steps had been worn from years and years of use, and then the path continued on around the house to the spacious back garden.

I admit, it was a strange concept to grasp my head around. Moving house. To the countryside. I'd never been outside of London and I kept telling myself that this was not, in fact, a holiday, but a permanent fixture.

This was it.

This was home.