‘Move on.’ She mutters the words to herself as if she’s trying them out.
            ‘I have to go,’ I say.
            ‘God forbid I keep you and your students from the intricacies of the industrial revolution.’
            I stand, lean over and place a kiss on her forehead. I can taste the nicotine on my lips.
            ‘There’s a fast train, Mum. Two hours. It’s nothing.’
            She waves me away. It feels like someone has my heart in their palm and is closing their fist. I think of my mother taking the bus into town with no-one to meet, walking to a new sandwich bar, ordering herself lunch.
            ‘And anyway, it’ll take a while, a couple of months. And we’ll arrange for you to come down and stay.’
            She lifts her chin, as if to say, go, and so I do. I loop my bag over my shoulder and head off up Market Street. She’ll be lighting another cigarette. She’ll be watching me. I don’t look back.

There’s so much to do in the weeks before we leave, there’s little time to think. We throw a party for friends. I drink too much and end up crying in the bathroom. I invite my mother over for dinner the night before we leave. She arrives with a flat parcel wrapped in silver paper, which she leaves in the hallway. Pretty much everything we own is packed up in boxes, and the flat echoes around us as we walk towards the kitchen. She smokes all the way through dinner and I don’t say anything. I serve Spaghetti Bolognese with sauce from a jar and she doesn’t comment. When we’re done, I walk her to the door and we both stop in front of the parcel.
            ‘I’ll be down next week,’ I say. ‘I’ll see you then.’ There are still two weeks left of term. I’ve already booked my train back home.

4

  

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