Later that week, in the late evening, I decided to retreat. Revisiting the first home I'd ever known, the one that had become a mere shard of my memory. My life there was foggy, the world through my infantile eyes returning to me in clouded, blurry fragments. I hadn't been there for almost a decade, I couldn't expect to recall much.
I'd left the lodging house after dinner, having finished my bowl of warm, creamy soup; one of 4 meals that were rotated throughout the week. Ms Darby had all the girls dine with her downstairs, Monday to Friday, at precisely 6 o'clock in the evening. We'd all gather around the table and take the same seat we occupied each night.
Our places weren't assigned by any means, but an unspoken comfort was found in routine. And that's what most of the girls there, myself included, were searching for. Comfort.
In the form of carpeted floors and floral curtains; white, wooden, stair railing and fresh, countryside air; in amity and companionship, community and sisterhood. Only, none of us ever spoke to each other.
The lodging house was a place for privacy. Every girl kept to themselves and stalked the halls silently. Meals, disguised as social events, were in reality solitary endeavors. This was the way things were, because this is how we'd all silently agreed for them to be.
It was rare for someone to stay for more than a week at a time. Girls filtered in and out of the house as if it were a bridge or a tunnel; nothing more than a distance to travel, or a path to take.
Of everyone, I'd been there the longest. And approaching three weeks away from the life I'd so suddenly dropped, felt like drifting away from all the safety that land promises, further into the inhabitable emptiness that the ocean proves itself to be.
For half an hour, the room was filled with the delicate clinks of metal spoon against the inside of shallow bowls, some ceramic, others porcelain. And once I was done, I would place the spoon to the right of the bowl, its head atop my napkin to avoid staining the tablecloth, and return to my room.
We'd all file back through our doors, eager to shut ourselves away once again. I didn't know what they had to hide, and nor did they know what I did. It was mutual discretion, an invisible pact of minding one's own business. And everyone abided by it, no questions asked.
And so when I slipped out through the back of the house, with nothing more than a shawl draped over my nightdress, no one even batted an eye. The only acknowledgment of my departure, was a brief reminder from Ms Darby that I had yet to collect my mail.
I strolled out onto the field, under the night sky. It shone a dark hue against the grass, the trees, and the earth. I was walking on darkness, on the outskirts of the town. Just beyond the cobble streets and fire lit lanterns.
I could hear the distant singing of cicadas to my right, deep in the thick of the forest. To my right was the town, bursting with youth, with nightlife and sheer joy. I was smothered between the two, each side brushing against me, inviting me towards them with open arms.
But I continued on ahead, because for once, I wasn't headed nowhere. I knew where I was going, and I remembered the route as if I had never left. The path to my old estate, the place of my birth and the place I'd never imagined myself revisiting while I still lived.
The only comfort to me was the feeling of the ends of my hair scratching against my neck, reminding myself that I was no longer the person I had been when I left, and would therefore not be returning as that same person.
Reminding myself that that part of my life was in the past, and would remain there indefinitely. That I didn't have to worry about getting sucked back into that mindset. I knew better now.
I took a seat on the grass, atop the nearby hill where I used to spend my days with the billy goats as a child. It's where you'd get the best view of the manor. A large, boxy house; 4 stories with a pointed roof.
The windows glowed out onto the gardens like spotlights onto a stage. A performance of landscaping, a dance of flower petals. I could see movement within, shadows shuffling through the halls, secret conversations, private rendezvous.
I noted the scene to be grand, a candid take on what upper class life was like. The residents where wealthy, with some affiliation to the crown; but not significant enough to be remembered or recognized by name.
I squinted in the dark to see the people walking about outside. They roamed with purpose, away from the pleasantries taking place indoors, busy taking things from one place to another, running them back over and over again.
I thought about how mum used to be one of these people, scurrying about at the beck and call of those inside. I knew it wasn't all that different from what she, or rather we, did now. But at least they knew our names at Basilwether.
I wondered if Tewkesbury had ever visited the place. It was very possible that he, at some point, had been invited to some extravagant banquet hosted there. It was reminiscent of his own home, built of a similar stature. And yet, it held an unfamiliar coldness.
Because although this was the closest I'd been to the estate since being a little girl, only eight years of age, I don't think I could have felt any further away. I looked out onto the land, the manor, the gardens, the gates, the grass, and the lights, to find that it had lost all meaning to me.
I no longer tripped on protruding stones, grazing my knees against the pebble pathways. No longer followed mum around like a lost puppy, with nothing to do, no one to speak to or play with.
I no longer scavenged the kitchen for rogue treats or biscuits left uneaten, as if I were a raccoon in the middle of winter. I no longer roamed the halls late at night, calling out to my own echo, unsure each time as to whether or not she would call back to me.
The hills were no longer my domain, and the cattle no longer my only companions. I no longer 'borrowed' books from the grand library, searching for a story, some fiction to lose myself in.
I no longer ran up to father each time he arrived back from some task or delivery, having spent the whole day waiting by the gated entrance. That was something I would never be able to do again.
And it dawned on me that, my father would never do anything, ever again. And I concluded I was being wasteful, useless, selfish.
Here I was, watching the life I once had, staring at it through a lens as if I were watching goldfish swim around in a small glass bowl. While my the orchestra of my life continued to play on without me.
I kept telling myself that I wasn't the same person, that I was different, older, more mature. Smarter, wiser, more responsible, more aware, better equipped, better loved, better needed, better wanted.
And I'd said these things a thousand times since I'd left, since I'd arrived somewhere new, where I'd hoped this redesign of myself could flourish and thrive.
How many more times would I have to say it for it to become true?
I'd left the only boy I'd ever loved, one who loved me back, who'd asked me to spend the rest of my life with him. The one who was willing to offer me whatever it was I wanted, everything he had and everything he was.
I'd broken his heart and run away before things could fall apart any further. I'd gone back to a place I'd so clearly outgrown, I'd faced the fears I'd let haunt me for longer than I should have, and I'd reflected on my present as if it were my past.
I had cut my hair short, all the way round; just, cut it all off and called myself new and improved. But I hadn't changed at all.
Because I never stopped lying to myself.
I told myself that I had, swore to tell the truth from now on. But that was months ago, and it was also a lie. I continue to make promises to myself, ignoring the fact that they were bound to be broken.
I think, now, if I were only allowed one bit of knowledge, it would be to never promise yourself anything, because you never know what you might want tomorrow.
I had all of this unnecessary guilt that I been dragging along for years. And even now! I couldn't help what I was doing!
This was what I did, every single time. I'd reflect, separate myself from what I'd done and what had happened, and used it to teach myself a lesson, as not to repeat it. Except, I kept doing the same things over and over again.
The girl who used to graze her knees was the girl who stole the books. She was also the girl who moved across the country, and the girl who made a friend. She was the girl who fell in love, the girl who lost her father, the girl who had her heartbroken, the girl who got engaged, the girl who fell in love again,
And the girl sitting on the grass, atop the hill, under the night sky, staring at the house which no longer had any of its lights on.
I wondered if this had been clear to everyone but me, and assumed that it had. I'd always been Florence, same old Florence, Flo, always. It was only in my mind that I was undergoing this continuous process of evolution, unwilling to accept the fact that I'd never be anybody but myself.
I headed back to the lodging house, seeing as the rest of the world had already gone to sleep. I walked on stable ground and sturdy feet, rooted by identity. As I entered the house, silent, still, I did so as Florence. I walked up the stairs as Florence, crept through the corridors as Florence, and lay in bed as her too
I looked to my left and pictured him there, his head upon the white cotton pillow, hair messy, smiling back at me. I imagined him saying my name and together we'd reminisce our childhoods. And I'd see those memories as moments I had lived through, as opposed to the lives of past versions of myself.
I had lived that life. I had spent nights with him up in that rickety old treehouse. I'd sprintied across pastures and lay beneath the stars, beside him. Together we'd wasted summer days, waded through cold water, realised that neither of us would ever be able to replace the other.
Reaching out to him with an outstretched hand was a mistake. It only reminded me that he wasn't really there. I wanted him back, the way I'd had him before. Before he'd asked me to marry him. Before he'd made things real.
But I had to remind myself that they were the same person; the one I loved, and the one I left. Because, just like how I'd never changed, neither had he. I wanted that person, the one he had always been.
I just hoped that he'd want me too.