Kit: Your Turn

Home smelled of the workshop, Mum's cooking and the laundry powder I had bought in the wrong version in Manchester.

My room was tidier than I'd left it because Mum had vacuumed, not because she had turned it into a memorial. The broken shelf still leaned. The old map folder was where I'd put it. On the desk, Dad had left a small packet of spare cable ties with a note that said professional supplies, no charge.

I unpacked only what I needed. I was staying for the weekend. The fact did not make the visit less real.

On Saturday morning, I helped in the shop for an hour, then stopped because Dad had specifically said I was visiting, not filling a vacancy. I went to Luca's afternoon performance at the arts centre and listened to the sound from the audience instead of standing behind a desk. He had made something good. Afterwards, I told him exactly which part had worked on me, and he looked pleased in the way people do when the compliment proves you were paying attention.

Nell finished her museum shift at four. She came out wearing the effective coat and carrying her bag on one shoulder. There was a pencil behind her ear again.

“Occupational hazard,” she said when I pointed it out.

“That's your explanation for everything now.”

“Very useful career.”

We walked without hurrying. She told me about the flood article, Gran's response and the school-paper cover. I told her about Dev, the stairs and the strange pleasure of knowing which cupboard held something at college without having to ask.

At the library window, a copy of our guide stood beside a notice for the next youth project. Different teenagers. A different idea. Jo had not asked us to become permanent representatives of local youthfulness, which was sensible because we were already getting older and still regularly wrong.

Inside the window, the cover looked a little faded at one edge.

“Should we rescue it?” Nell asked.

“We can tell Jo. Let her decide where to put it.”

Nell smiled. “Look at us, tolerating the existence of other people.”

“Advanced level.”

We took the lower path towards the harbour. Halfway there, I stopped and took the little notebook from my pocket.

“I brought this back.”

“Finished?”

“No.”

“Good.”

We sat on a bench out of the wind. Nell read the pages she'd missed. She laughed at Bex's milk, asked about Dev and grew quiet at a sentence I'd written after a difficult day: I wanted to hear your voice, but I also needed to go downstairs and eat with the people who were there.

She touched the edge of the page.

“I'm glad you did.”

“Both things,” I said.

“Both things.”

She took the pen and wrote about the quiz, the visit and the woman with the plant on the train. She did not make every entry about loving me. That made the love easier to see, not harder. It was part of the life on the pages rather than the only thing allowed to happen there.

When she finished, she handed the notebook back.

“You can keep it this time,” I said.

“For how long?”

“Until we swap again.”

She put it in her bag carefully, between a book and a packet of museum postcards.

The water moved below us. A gull landed on the railing, inspected our lack of food and departed in disgust. Somewhere behind the harbour wall, a boat engine coughed, failed and tried again.

“I love you,” Nell said.

“I love you too.”

We kissed, warm mouths in cold air, and then laughed because the pencil fell from behind her ear into my lap.

“Very smooth,” I said.

“I provide practical gifts.”

I gave it back. She held my hand while we watched the boats for a little longer.

There would be another train on Sunday. There would be weeks when we got things wrong, work we cared about separately, friends who needed us, days when the person on the screen felt too far away. We had not discovered a clever way around any of that.

We had learned to ask what the other person meant. To say when a plan had changed. To leave room on the page.

When we stood, Nell glanced towards the route home, then towards the smaller street leading inland.

“What?” I asked.

“There's something I want to show you. Not impressive. Just something I noticed.”

“Is there a cost sheet?”

“No.”

“Feedback form?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then lead on.”

She took the smaller street. I went with her, our hands warm between us, while the town carried on being larger than either of our maps.