Across the Pond – Chapter 1

The flight to London had been rather long, and I still had to face an hour-long drive to get to Luton, a large town not too far from the edge of Greater London, but still separate from the metropolitan area by miles of countryside. I was thankful that my father had picked me up at the airport, but I could barely wait to get to their house and stretch my legs. On the way there, my father kept rambling on about the renovations they were doing in the barn on the back of their property, and the effort he and mom had put into preserving the ‘character’ of the house while turning it into a painting studio. And I did my best to seem interested and nodded my head, even though I really couldn’t follow all the construction and renovation talk. But I was happy to see dad happy, and that was all that mattered. There was something amusing about seeing a man dressed almost perfectly like a native Englishman, with his plaid vest and the small beret that now sat on his lap, speak with a thick Minnesotan accent without any shame or attempt in concealing it. I didn’t know if I expected that just four years living in the United Kingdom would change the way he spoke much, but there was an interesting contrast between how much of the fashion, yet none of the speech, he had adopted.

My mother had gone to America very young, during the late sixties, and never left. She told me that she had moved in to study and ‘see the world’, but I suspected, based on the few photos she had of the time, that she was one of the many people that had ended up on the West Coast during the Summer of Love, and that it was that particular moment in time and culture that brought her from across the pond, as she would say. She ended up staying after the hippie thing died out, meeting my father and eventually having me. But our family always had a good relationship with my grandparents in the ‘old country’, and when they passed away, they left their manorial home in the suburbs of Luton to their only daughter. Mom couldn’t bring herself to see the home of her childhood memories, and it sat there for almost eight years, abandoned, until both of my parents found themselves retired and, with my life already set on a good path, they had decided to make a move and spend their golden years in the English countryside, renovating the old home.

If I had any concerns that that arrangement was mostly just for mom’s benefit and that my father was just going with it to make her happy, seeing how much he smiled whenever he mentioned the labour they were putting in on the house cleared any doubt. I had not visited them since they moved, I meant to do so earlier, but I often found myself busy with work. And then a lot of things happened in the past years so I was happy to have finally made some time to come visit. This was also my first trip abroad, except for Canada, which, I think, didn’t count when you are from Minnesota.

“You know there’s an airport in Luton, right?” my father asked me as we drove across the idyllic countryside.

I watched the low stone walls surrounding narrow fields, and in the distance, the white spires of the wind turbines and the tall brick chimneys sprouting out of the old industry. It was like watching three different ages unfolding at the same time. The distant past of the middle ages, the turn of the century industrial boom and the modern push towards renewables.

“Yes, dad,” I responded finally, turning my attention back to the car a little impatiently. “But I told you it was way cheaper to get the ticket this way… Look, I said you didn’t need to come to get me. You insisted though.”

“Oh, I’m happy to pick you up, don’t get me wrong. Was just pointing it out. Maybe for the next visit, hm?”

“Maybe.”

I left out the fact that the ‘next’ visit was probably a few years away. It was pointless to argue about this sort of thing with my father, so I just nodded. Soon we were driving around Luton but deliberately not going into the city centre. Instead, my father took the ring road with his seaweed green Peugeot 5008 so that we could contour almost the entire town to then finally leave the highway and enter the northern suburbs. The neighbourhood my grandparents had lived in was almost part of the rural areas north of the city, and each of the cottage-style homes there was separated from each other by a big yard and a small cobblestone or brick fence. I only knew the house from pictures, and they did not do it justice.

The house’s exterior was entirely covered by greyish-brown stones, with narrow, small windows and a dark near-black thatched roof from where the rectangular chimney blocks would break out in two different places. A few mansards still peeked through the strangely old-timey roofing. The cobblestone fence surrounding the property had always been exposed, but my parents had let flowery vines grow all over it. A new wrought-iron-looking gate had been placed there and, with a click from the remote dangling from my father’s car key, it slid aside, allowing us to park in the yard. As I stepped out of the car, I noticed the very antique bird fountain they had placed there, which wasn’t in any of the pictures from when my grandparents owned the place. The gazebo wasn’t new, but it had clearly been recently painted white, contrasting starkly with the sombre greyness of the rest of the property.

“So, you like it?” my father asked me while he opened the back of the car to pull my luggage from the trunk and place it on the old stone driveway before pulling out the handle from which to pull my wheeled suitcase.

“It’s… Really nice,” I said, and I wanted to say more, but I was never too good at painting with words. “You and mom have been busy.”

“Ha! I know!” my father enthusiastically agreed, walking to the door. “Surprising how much energy I’ve found since I started working here. Working with my hands again makes me feel young.”

“I believe you,” I said.

Working with one’s hands was the opposite of what I did. As a paralegal in a tax-consulting firm, my job was to help people who helped corporations pay the least amount of tax legally possible. It was a well-paying job, and very stable. And I was good at it too but, in the end, I didn’t have much to show for what I did, unless I was to point toward large companies and ensure that we got them millions in tax breaks that year. Not exactly something one was usually proud of. Even my parents, who probably still had a little bit of that hippie movement blood in their veins, didn’t like to discuss it with me. They would ask me about it but only in the sense to know if my career was going well and if I was happy. Which, I reckoned, I probably was.

We entered the vestibule, and my breath was taken away. While the exterior of the house had been preserved, the interior had been entirely redone. It still had a rustic aspect, but everything was modern and open-plan. What was once a small vestibule had been converted into a wooden landing with a railing overlooking the new large open living room and kitchen. From that landing, the narrow stairs led to the top floor of the cottage where I assumed the rooms were located. The far wall into the backyard had been entirely taken out and replaced with glass, up into the angle of the ceiling. I could see through it the fire pit, no doubt my father’s idea, and the surrounding patio furniture. It was really impressive, and the sort of thing I expected to see on Pinterest, not in real life.

My father puffed out as he placed my suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and smiled, watching my surprise at seeing their renewed interior. He then looked with a pained expression at the narrow stairs with steep steps and my heavy luggage, so I was quick to volunteer to take the task off his hands.

“No, no, I can carry it, don’t worry.”

“Don’t be stubborn, dad. I’ll do it.”

“Well… If you are sure… I know better than to argue with my Aimee.”

“I am…” I noted, lifting it and placing it on the first step, and realizing that it wouldn’t be as simple a task as I thought; why did I need to pack so much? “Where’s mom?”

“Probably in the barn. I’ll go call her. You want a coffee?”

“I thought you guys drank tea,” I teased.

My dad laughed and shook his head. He might have adopted the fashion, but I knew then he was still grilling hotdogs and hamburgers in the backyard and drinking a large mug of coffee every morning.

“Second door to the right,” he told me before moving towards the backyard.

I found the guest room easy enough once the arduous part of getting my suitcase upstairs was done and also learned that they had built an even narrower wooden staircase leading to what I imagined was some sort of attic. I was curious as to what they would be using it for if the barn was to become my mom’s painting studio, but I reckoned a tour of the house was unavoidable, so I might as well leave some room for surprise. After taking off my shoes for a little bit, I noticed that the guest bedroom I was going to be using was a suite, and I went into the tiny charming bathroom to splash my face with some cold water and brush off that strange sensation that clung to my skin whenever I flew commercially for long hours. I laid down on the bed to stretch myself for a few moments until the smell of freshly brewed coffee found me and I realized I really wanted a cup.

On my way out of the room, I found myself looking at my reflection in the mirror. My hair was a bit messier than I would’ve liked, but a few brushes of fingers returned it to an acceptable state. I had long dark hair that reached just a bit past my shoulders, in a colour that one of my friends liked to call ‘spicy brown’, as there was just a dash of red on the way the light bounced off it but lacked the sheer dazzle factor of a proper red head of hair. From my mother’s side, I had gotten my fair rosy-pale skin with just a very subtle dash of freckles across the bridge of my nose; and from my dad, I had gotten those bright blue Minnesotan eyes and my stocky build. Even though I was on the thinner side, with barely any breasts to show for it, my hips flared out dramatically which, paired with my short stature, had led to a lot of jokes about the ‘centre of gravity’ when I was a teenager. I never thought I was ugly, but I guess I always found myself unimpressed with my own appearance, and that might have played a role in how shy I often was, and why I hadn’t really dated and explored my options all that much.

I adjusted the edge of my black wool sweater worn tucked under the high-waist jeans which did a lot of the heavy lifting in complementing my figure. And I then put my feet into a pair of comfortable slippers and walked downstairs.

As I reached that landing, I spotted my parents in the kitchen, and as they had not seen me yet, I stood still for a moment observing them. My dad was a large man, not obese, but thick on every limb and with a barrel-like chest, and hair so blond it was nearly white, he could pass as a Viking, or a local Englishman, if there wasn’t something very American about the way he moved and carried himself; a fun juxtaposition with his ‘English farmer’ clothes. My mother, on the other hand, was a short matron figure, with her hair now all silver and cut short and styled in what I’m sure she thought was a very modern way, a slightly longer pixie cut. She was wearing a floral dress and an apron stained with colourful paint all over. But what made me stay put and look at them for a moment was the gentle way she caressed my father’s cheeks and looked at him as he poured coffee into two mugs.

Most people of my parents' generation weren’t that into touching and displays of affection, public or otherwise, but I got the sense that Paul and Meredith never grew out of their own Summer of Love. It wasn’t a strange sight to see them kissing, holding hands or gently touching each other around the house. And I remember as a teenager how often they would imply, not always very subtly, that they still had a very active sex life, at minimal provocation. It was embarrassing back then, and it would still make me blush now. But overall, I found it all very endearing. But it made me realize that I didn’t have anything like that in my life currently, or had had for a long while. It was a strange realization to have that your parents likely will have had more action than you ever will, I thought to myself as I stepped out of the dais and went to join them in the kitchen.

“Hey mom, hey dad.”

“Oh! My sweet Aimee! Give us a snog, will you?” my mom said, pulling me close to kiss me on the cheek and hug me tightly after. “I missed you so much, my ducky.”

“Mom… I’m a bit old for ducky, am I not?”

My mother broke the hug and looked downright indignant with the mere suggestion.

“You are never too old for ducky.”

I had no remedy but to chuckle and accept it, with how resolute she was.

“Alright, alright…” I conceded and changed the subject. “I love what you and da did with the place.”

“Really? Oh good… I was afraid we were going a bit too overboard with the changes. I really didn’t want to change anything at first, you know? Keep it like in my memories but once we started going, I just couldn’t stop. Everywhere I looked I saw something we could make better.”

“But we kept the outside 'old school'.”

“Yes, yes, we did. Else we wouldn’t hear the end of it from the neighbours. Preserve the character of the neighbourhood and all that,” my mom giggled at the thought.

“Here, ducky, I poured you a coffee.” My dad pushed the large black mug into my hands.

It felt good to drink something warm and caffeinated. I didn’t want to tell my parents, or else they would make a fuss out of it, but I had been having caffeine withdrawal headaches since I landed. At work, I would drink coffee almost every hour of the workday, and being without it for half a day was already enough to get my head throbbing. That was an elixir of relief.

“So, you guys don’t get along with the neighbours?” I asked, less out of interest and more just wanting to keep the conversation going.

“Oh no, we do. Very much, you’ll see,” Meredith added.

That statement confused me.

“I will?”

“Your dad didn’t say anything?

“About?”

“Oh, right, I was supposed to mention. We are having a get-together tomorrow with the neighbours. We are hosting.”

“Oh… I can probably find something to do in the city and be out of your hair then.”

A social event full of old people wasn’t exactly my idea of fun.

“Shush, poppycock,” Mom fired, “we want to show off our ducky to our friends, of course. You're going nowhere.”

“Please don’t call me that in front of your friends.”

“Know your battles, ducky.”

And at that moment, I decided that there was no point in pushing further on that subject. With a glance around their new home and another sip of my coffee, I just exhaled and nodded, before taking my seat by their large kitchen island separating the living room space from the kitchen.

“So… What’s up with this party?” I asked, seeking a new subject.

“Oh… It’s really more of a get-together…” mom started, sitting next to me and barely containing her enthusiasm.