Page 13 of The Reno
I felt like an eleven-year-old child again. It brought back the smell of Mum’s deputy headteacher’s office. Her disappointedexpression when I told her I’d forgotten my maths homework, PE kit and food tech basket on the same day.You need to be more organised than this, Katherine. I can’t always be there to hold your hand. My mother shook her head. Post-diagnosis, my mum’s remarks didn’t change much. It shifted fromYou just need to apply yourselftoIt doesn’t mean you have an excuse, Kat. She didn’t understand that my lack of focus wasn’t laziness or for want of trying.
“Kat?” The loud voice called from the open front door again, pulling me from my thoughts.
I ran down the stairs to find my cousin Lydia standing in the hallway. She was brandishing two bottles of prosecco like they were awards, and she’d just swept the board.
She raised the bottle above her head. “Surprise, bitch!” She accosted me into a bone-crushing hug, her long blonde hair making its way into my mouth. Our height difference (me, five foot five and a half, Lydia, five foot eight) was even more apparent when we hugged, which was rarely. We were “weddings and funerals” cousins, mainly due to the distance. Lydia was a born and bred Mancunian, like all the paternal side of my family, while I was raised in Reading.
“How’s it going?” Lydia asked, her faint Mancunian accent coming through, the first I’d heard since arriving. Sometimes, it hurt to hear it; that lilt evoked memories of late-night phone calls from my dad after missed milestones—apologies for absences at dance performances, school award ceremonies, and first days at school.
I shrugged. “Not too bad.”
Lydia looked around the place, probably seeing the destruction in our wake, but didn’t comment directly. My familiar friend, self-doubt, was waving like Forrest Gump in my head. There was so much to do, and I couldn’t even complete one task without a breakdown.
How did I plan to renovate a whole house if I couldn’t clean one?
Lydia looked around the hallway, picking at the plaster. “So, Uncle Jim left this place to you? You had no idea?”
“I just got a call from a solicitor.”
The subtext was obvious.
He hadn’t told me because we didn’t speak.
Lydia’s blue eyes, the Williams family eyes we shared, met mine and softened.
“I’m so sorry, Kat.”
I tensed.
“It’s fine. Anyway. I’m going to renovate it myself.” I pulled my curly hair up into the bobble on my wrist.
“You’re going to renovate it?” she squeaked, eyes going wide.
Great.
EvenMiss Motivationherself doubted me.
“It was Dad’s childhood home, and your dad’s too.” I nodded towards Lydia. My uncle looked so much like my dad, with darker red curls and crinkly eyes, that I’d struggled to say more than a few words to him at the funeral last year. Looking at Brian felt like looking at the sun.
“I know… but I know you and your dad… were strained. Everyone would understand if you wanted to sell. Let someoneelse renovate it.”
Were they talking behind my back? This is because of the funeral. They saw how I messed up and thought I would choke at this, too.
I shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “It feels right to bring it back to life. Let someone else build memories here.” My nose began to burn. “Plus, it makes more business sense. I met with the estate agent, and he reckons if I spend money on just a few basics, it will sell for a lot more. Then I can use that money to buy a place in London.”
“Does that mean I get to see my cousin more than a few hours this year?” Lydia smiled and threw her toned arm around my shoulders.
“Yep, you have me for two months.”
Lydia’s lips pulled back in mock disgust. “Alright. Don’t overstay your welcome, cuz. This town isn’t big enough for two Williams girls.”
I chuckled. “I’m sure it will survive.”
“We’ll have to warn the town crier.”
Lydia’s town. Dad’s town. My paternal family had set down deep roots in Everly Heath. But I’d always felt like an outsider on the few occasions I’d visited, even before my parents’ divorce. I’d been a pre-teen, an infamously awkward age, and while everyone had been friendly and welcoming, I’d always felt anxious and awkward compared to the relaxed way everyone talked to each other. There was a rhythm, but I didn’t have the hymn sheet.
Lydia ruffled my sweaty hair. “Where shall we start, then?” She eyed the hallway and kitchen.
