The Moving Times Of Caroline Proudly

Rose Cottage

Time had not only mended the once broken relationship with my parents, but it had also somehow painted a deep shade of rose over my glasses. The weekends that I had spent at Rose Cottage over the years were full of my mother pampering and delight at having the opportunity to be able to do so. My father tried to be on his best behaviour and where possible kept his mouth shut on subjects that were likely to cause a row.

As I turned off the A63 and roared along the country backroads, I felt that I had let myself down by accepting my mother's invitation to fly back to the nest. I felt angry that I had lost my pig-headed determination to be independent and I felt more vulnerable than I could ever remember. As I took the turning to my childhood village of Bilton, I cheered up a bit with the consolation that it was a sensible adult decision to accept my parents help during my rough patch.

By the time I pulled up outside Rose Cottage I was as ecstatic at the prospect of being there as I had been, all those years before, by the idea of leaving it. My father came out before I had had the chance to get out of the car and greeted me with, 'I thought you said that you were leaving London at 11 o'clock.' I proudly confirmed that I had done exactly that. A frowned expression was followed with a check of his watch and comments about the speed I must have driven to have made it to Bilton in that record time. It included all sorts of calculations about speed and distance in built up areas versus open motorway.

Just as the shade of pink was fading noticeably fast, my father may have well ripped the glasses from my face and stamped all over them. 'Christ Almighty! How much crap have you got in there? We can't possibly store all of that. There's no room. There isn't enough for your mother's crap...' As I buckled under the effects of my father's authority, I choked back tears and I decided that it was better not to aggravate the situation by mentioning that another three carloads-full would be wending their way to Rose Cottage from a friend's spare room over the next week.

My mother was far more welcoming. She had clearly been waiting in excited anticipation for my arrival and was delighted that I had got there well in advance of her predicted time. She babbled lovingly on about how much fun it was going to be, what we could get up to – interspersed with comments about how awful I looked and how thin I was and how there was some cake or biscuits or both. 'Have you got much stuff? You must do! Don't worry about that. Your father will find room for everything.' The only thing I could say was, 'Funny, isn't it. Home doesn't really change, does it?'

In her excitement, my mother completely missed the irony and somehow took it as a compliment. I sat contemplating whether to jump into my loaded car and just drive off, to anywhere, anywhere but just not there.

My father didn't seem to notice my gauntness or the grey hue of my complexion, although he did empathetically comment that being made redundant and moving to a new house were two very stressful things.

Although nearing emotional and physical exhaustion, I agreed to get up when my father woke me at 8am the next morning. He wanted a hand with something and, apart from being a help to him, it would apparently take my mind off my situation. As my mother poured me a cup of tea, my father suggested half a cup would be enough as we had things to do...'We haven't got time to sit around drinking tea! We need to crack on...It will be lunchtime before we know it!' For fear that my father would whisk away my cup, I didn't put it down until it was empty.

The help needed was to methodically stack each stone he removed from the external wall of the bathroom. Like I was a new apprentice, I was watched like a hawk and curtly pulled up if an interior stone was put with the exterior ones, or the other way around. The larger filler stones required careful inspection as some with a flat edge qualified to change roles and become an interior stone, but never an exterior as they had benefited from four centuries of weathering. Well before we stopped for lunch, I was deemed to be inappropriately dressed as a result of the amount of dust. I received a look of total surprise that within all the crap that I had brought with me, an old headscarf was not included. My father went off to see what he could come up with and returned with a square of an old cotton sheet that had been assigned to become rags. Problem solved.