girls of the lakes

'A Southern girl. I like those.'

‘Tammie, you can stop looking out of the window like you’re in a music video now,’ my dad jokes. ‘We’re here.’

I snap my head up towards the row of houses outside the car window; there, in front of us, is a row of bed and breakfast houses in this little town in the Lake District. One of them – the one with the purple sign, I’m told – was the one we’re staying in; it’s neater and more groomed than the rest. I allow myself a small smile and look at my parents. My dad grins back.

‘Shall we go?’

We get out of the car and fling open the boot. Compared to my parents, I have a lot less stuff, so I have to carry my own things. That’s fine with me. I go on ahead while they struggle with their own bags. My dad knocks on the door and is immediately greeted by a very welcoming woman who seems to know everything about the place.

I have my own room, thankfully. It’s small (again, not a problem), with red and white décor. A small single bed. The sink, intended for the en suite, in the main room. A mirror and desk next to the wardrobe. A solitary chair in front of the huge window.

‘This is great,’ I smile to the bed & breakfast woman, named Dorothy. She looks pleased at my enthusiasm.

‘I’ll leave you to unpack,’ she smiles, and quietly closes the door.

I like this. I’m on my own. No interfering parents; no strict order that my mum insists on. While I’m neat, she takes it to the extreme. I sort out my clothes and neatly organise them into the right compartments – underwear in the drawers near my bed and outfits in the wardrobe. My favourite book goes on top of the drawers, covered in shadow by the lamp. (I’m in the process of re-reading it for the seventeenth time.) I drape my hoodie across the lone chair in front of the window, and shove my suitcase under its legs. Finally, I sort out my toiletries and spread them across the sink place.

There. Done. What to do now?

Three knocks on the door mean it’s my dad on the other side. I open the door and smile at him. ‘Are you okay?’

‘Yes! I just came to see how you were, sweetheart,’ he answers. ‘Are you settling in alright?’

‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘I’m glad I’m in my own room. I get more privacy. How’s your room?’

‘It’s good,’ he smiles. ‘Your mum’s sorting out all the compartments.’

I nod. ‘Do you ever wish she was a little less of a… neat freak?’

My dad doesn’t like negative thoughts about my mum. But, surprisingly, he nods – if haltingly. He has a glint in his eye, like he’s about to tell a secret. ‘When I go on business trips and have my own room, I make everything as untidy as possible, or just how I like it.’

I laugh – good old Dad! ‘Mum would be horrified.’

He folds his arms. ‘Compromise is what makes marriage work. And acceptance of all the traits of your other half. You give and take to share the experiences.’

‘Adem Sadik-Wilkinson, what on Earth are you doing?’ my mother asks, popping out of their room to shout at my dad. ‘We need to figure out what we’re supposed to be doing.’

‘You looked busy, dear,’ my dad replies.

‘Not any more,’ she counters. ‘Come on!’

He gives me a look, and then moves towards their room. Quietly I close the door again.

An hour later, my mum calls me and tells me to come into their room. There’s no point in arguing with her; I set my book down immediately and traipse over to their room. The door is opened before I can knock on it.