The Address in Writing

The revised completion date came on a Friday afternoon. The repairs were progressing, the follow-up checks had been scheduled and, provided nothing else was found, the Bellbridge flat could be available early the next month.

Mum read the message without letting anyone speak until she reached the end.

“Provided,” Toby said.

“Yes.”

“That word again.”

“I know.”

This time, however, there were documents with their names and figures Mum could check. There was an address: 14B Rowan Court, Bellbridge. There was a list of what needed to happen before the keys could be handed over. The possibility had begun acquiring the awkward, useful shape of administration.

Mum and Sonia spoke at length. Leila did not listen to every minute. She worked on the final label for her exhibition, then made tea when Mum asked. Later, they went through the practical plan together: travel, work, the remaining furniture, where to collect the stored boxes and what would need buying immediately.

“Curtains,” Mum said.

“There are blinds,” Leila replied, looking at the photographs.

“In two rooms. Not yours.”

“I can have a sheet for a bit.”

Mum looked at her.

“For a bit,” Leila repeated. “Not because I don't need curtains. Because I can choose which things happen first.”

Mum nodded. It was a distinction they were both learning to hear.

Toby made his own list. Bed. Shelf. Football. Door that shuts.

“Your door has always shut,” Leila said.

“In the hotel it shuts on everyone.”

She let the point stand.

They visited the flat again the following week. The kitchen floor was back in place. The new extractor worked. Ruth showed Mum the completed items and explained what remained to be checked. Leila stood in the third bedroom and listened to the sounds from outside: a dog, someone moving a bin, traffic farther away. The room smelled of paint, but not damp.

She took out a tape measure borrowed from Janice. Her desk would fit beneath the window with a small gap on either side. She checked twice, then wrote the number down rather than trusting how good it felt.

Toby came in carrying his own tape measure, a cheap retractable one Dad had given him.

“My shelf fits.”

“Most shelves fit somewhere.”

“Mine fits where I want it.”

“That is better.”

He stood beside her at the window. Below, the woman in the yard was taking washing in. She looked up, saw them and raised a hand. Toby waved back immediately. Leila followed a moment later.

“Do we know her?” he asked.

“Not yet.”

He seemed satisfied with yet.

On the way out, Mum paused in the sitting room. She looked at the space where their old sofa would not be. Leila wondered whether selling it had become a regret now that the room existed.

“We'll find something,” Mum said, as though answering the thought.

“Something with less of a hole in the middle.”

“An ambitious specification.”

They laughed. The room echoed because it held no furniture, not because furniture had been taken away. Leila noticed the difference and did not need to explain it aloud.

That evening, Mum put the printed address on the desk beside the hotel kettle. It was not a key. It was not yet a place they could sleep. It was more than a route planner and an imagined window.

Leila took a photograph and sent it to Esme. Then to Micah. Then to Dad, although Mum had already spoken to him.

The replies arrived with different kinds of happiness. Esme asked when she could visit. Micah looked up the route from the nursery where part of his placement would be based. Dad said he had checked the van availability for the likely weekend and would confirm only when the date was firm.

Leila read that last message twice, noticing the difference between an offer and an arrangement.

At bedtime, Toby asked whether he could put the football screw in the box marked FIRST NIGHT.

Mum said yes, though nobody needed a screw to sleep. He placed it in a small envelope so it would not disappear among the sheets.