Towards a New Life: “Mum, how long are we going to be stuck in this backwater? We’re not even in a proper town – this is the middle of nowhere!” groaned my daughter as she walked in from the coffee shop, humming her favourite song. “I’ve told you a hundred times, Masha: this is our home, our roots. I’m not going anywhere,” Mum replied, stretching out on the sofa with her legs propped on a cushion – her so-called ‘Churchill at rest’ pose. “Oh, you and your roots! Give it ten years and you’ll have wilted, with another hopeless fella turning up for you to call Dad.” Stung, Mum got up and checked herself in the built-in wardrobe mirror. “My roots are fine!” “Well, they are for now. Another year or two and you’ll have to choose: turnip, pumpkin or sweet potato – pick a vegetable you fancy as a chef.” “Darling, if you want to leave, go. You’re old enough to do anything that’s legal. Why do you need me?” “For my conscience, Mum. If I leave for a better life, who’ll look after you?” “I’ve got my insurance, a steady wage, broadband – and I’m sure I’ll end up with some bloke, as you point out. It’s easy for you to move, you’re young and modern and teenagers don’t drive you nuts yet. Me? I’m halfway to Valhalla already.” “Ha! You joke like my mates, and you’re only forty…” “Why say it out loud? Ruin my day, why don’t you?” “In cat years, that’s just five,” Masha grinned. “You’re forgiven.” “Mum, let’s just go before it’s too late. There’s nothing holding us here.” “I fought to get our surname spelled right on the gas bill, and our GP surgery is round the corner,” came Mum’s final protest. “You can register anywhere, and we don’t have to sell the house. If it doesn’t work, we can come back. I’ll show you how real life is lived!” “The sonographer did warn me you’d never let me rest. Thought he was joking – no wonder he won bronze on Britain’s Psychic Challenge. Right then, let’s go. But if it doesn’t work out, you promise you’ll let me come home with no drama?” “Scout’s honour!” “Your co-author in the registry office gave me the same line – and you two have the same stubborn streak…” *** Masha and Mum skipped the nearest city and headed straight for London. Draining three years’ savings, they rented a studio flat wedged between a street market and a bus station, paying four months upfront. The money ran out before they knew it. Masha was calm and full of energy. Instead of unpacking, she threw herself into city life – creative, social, even nightlife. She was instantly at home: quick to make friends, picked up local slang and dress codes, and acted as though she’d never lived anywhere else. Meanwhile, Mum rode a daily cycle of calming tea in the morning and sleeping pills at night. Ignoring Masha’s pleas to explore, she plunged into job hunting, only to find London’s wages and rent were a bad joke. A quick calculation (no clairvoyant needed) told her they’d last six months, max. Sticking to what she knew, Mum got work as a cook at a private school, then evenings as a kitchen porter at the local café. “Not this again, Mum! Chained to the stove as always – what’s the point of the big city? You could retrain – be a designer, a sommelier, a brow-tech! Ride the tube, sip posh coffee, live a little.” “I’m just not up for retraining, Masha. You don’t worry, I’ll settle in eventually. Just make sure you do.” Masha sighed about her mother’s lack of ambition, but got on with ‘settling’ herself – hanging out in cafés on others’ tabs, forging mental and spiritual bonds with the city like some Instagram runes guru advised, chasing circles of people who talked of ‘success’ and ‘making it’. But she didn’t land a job or a boyfriend: girl and city had to suss each other out first. Four months in, Mum was paying rent from her earnings, quit her evening job, and started catering for another school. Masha had dropped a few courses, tried out for local radio, acted in a student film (payment: pasta and tinned beef), and had brief dalliances with two “musicians”: one was a total donkey, the other a tomcat with more kids than sense. *** “Mum, fancy pizza and a film tonight? I’m wiped – can’t face going out,” Masha yawned, doing her best impression of Churchill-at-rest while Mum powdered her nose. “You order it, I’ll transfer the money – don’t keep any for me, I doubt I’ll be hungry when I’m back.” “Back from where?” Masha sat up, frowning at her mum’s back. “I’ve been invited for dinner,” Mum giggled, suddenly shy. “By whom?” Masha scowled. “Some bloke from the school inspection team. I fed him your favourite chicken burgers, he asked to meet the head chef, we shared a laugh – head chef at a school! Anyway, we had coffee, and now he’s having me round for dinner.” “Are you mad? Going to a strange man’s HOUSE? For DINNER?” “Why not?” “Don’t you get it? He’s not after your food!” “I’m forty and single, darling – he’s forty-five, clever, not married. Honestly, whatever he’s after, I’ll enjoy it.” “You sound like a hopeless small-towner, as if you’ve no choice.” “I don’t recognise you! You dragged me here so I’d live, not just exist.” You can’t argue with that logic. Masha realised they’d switched places, and it threw her. She ordered a giant pizza and spent the evening comfort eating. Mum returned around midnight, glowing in the dark hallway. “Well?” Masha grumbled. “A lovely guy, nothing like a potato beetle, proper local,” Mum giggled, heading for the shower. Mum started dating: theatre, stand-up, jazz concerts, a library card, a tea club – even a new GP. In six months, she’d enrolled in upskilling courses, earned certificates, and mastered new dishes. Masha didn’t sit idle either: she tried for top companies, but the ‘dream jobs’ chewed her up and spat her out. Friends vanished when she stopped being fun-for-free. In the end, she became a barista, then a night bartender. Life blurred into exhaustion and rings under her eyes. The punters chatted her up, but none were likely candidates for ‘true love’. It all grew unbearable. “You were right, Mum. There’s nothing for us here. Sorry for dragging you along. We need to go home,” Masha blurted after another tough night. “Go? Where to?” Mum was packing a suitcase. “Home! Where they spell our name right and the GP knows us.” “I’m settled here now, love – don’t want to leave,” Mum replied, searching Masha’s teary face. “But I’m not! I want to go back. All this – the rubbish tube, overpriced coffee, snobby bar customers – it’s not for me. At least you’re packing…” “I’m moving in with Eugene,” Mum casually revealed. “What do you mean? Moving IN?” “I figured you’re grown up, have a job, can handle the rent. I’m giving you a gift: life in the capital, beautiful and independent, with everything ahead of you. You’ve given me so much! If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be wilting in that dump. Here, life’s in full swing. Thank you!” She kissed Masha’s cheeks, but Masha wasn’t ready for thanks. “Mum, what about ME? Who’ll look after me?” cried Masha. “You’ll have your insurance, your pay, the Internet – and maybe meet a nice guy,” Mum quoted herself. “So you’re just leaving me?” “Not leaving, just holding you to your no-drama promise.” “Fine… House keys?” “In my bag. But one thing: Gran’s thinking of moving, too. I’ve sorted it with her – can you help her pack?” “Granny’s coming to London?!” “Yep. I sold her the London dream just like you did me. There’s a post job going, and your gran knows mail better than anyone – she’ll risk it before her ‘roots’ give up.”

Towards a New Life

Mum, how much longer are we going to rot in this backwater? groaned her daughter as she returned from the local café. Were not even in the countrysidewere in the middle of nowhere.

Emma, love, Ive told you a hundred timesthis is our home, this is where our roots are. Ive no intention of moving, replied her mother, sprawled on the sofa with her aching legs propped on a cushion. She always called this pose Winston Churchill, post-war.

Roots, roots, rootshonestly, how often are you going to harp on about that? Give it ten years and your roots will be compostand probably some other suitor will show up youll want me to call Dad.

Stung, her mother got up and stared into the mirrored wardrobe. My roots are perfectly healthy, thank you very much

I mean, theyre fine now, but in a bitwell, turnip, pumpkin, or sweet potatotake your pick, Emma teased. You can decide which youd rather be as a chef.

Darling, if youre so keen, move on your own. Youve been an adult, legally, for two years! Why do you still need me?

For my conscience, Mum. If I run off to a better life, wholl look after you here?

Insurance policy, steady salary, the internetplus the odd harmless suitor, just as you said. Its easy for you, youre young, modern, you get how the world works these days, and teenagers dont drive you mad yet. Im already halfway to the old folks home.

Oh, come off it! Youre joking like my friends, and youre barely into your forties

Did you really need to say that out loud, Emma? Just to make my day worse?

In cat years, thats only five, Emma corrected, grinning.

Youre forgiven.

Mum, lets go, while we still can! Lets pack up and catch a train out of here. Theres nothing pinning us down.

A month ago, I finally got them to spell our surname right on the gas bill! And were registered at our local GP practice her mum argued, mustering her final points.

You can get seen anywhere with an NHS number. And you dont have to sell the house right offyou can always come back if it doesnt work out. Trust me, Mum, Ill show you a whole new life!

My GP always told me at my ultrasound scan: She wont give you a moments peace! Thought he was joking. He did win a bronze in Britains Got Psychics afterwards. Fine, lets gojust promise me, if it doesnt work out, youll let me come homeno drama, no rows.

Cross my heart!

Thats what your father promised in the registry office too. And you two are made of the same stuff.

***

Emma and her mum didnt waste time on the regional town and went straight for London. They withdrew three years savings and splashed out on a studio flat in the outskirts, wedged between a market and a bus depot, paying four months rent upfront. The money ran out before theyd even started settling in.

Emma was brimming with confidence, not fussing over the mundane tasks of unpacking or decorating. She threw herself straight into the citys creative, social, and nocturnal scenes. She fit in almost instantlymade friends quickly, figured out London hotspots, and dressed and spoke like a lifelong Londoner. It was as if shed been born in the city and never seen the sleepy back lanes shed left behind.

Her mum, meanwhile, oscillated between her morning herbal teas and her evening sleeping tablets. On day one, despite Emmas pleas to explore the city, her mother began scouring job listings. Londons vacancies, and the salaries on offer, seemed completely mismatched and not a little suspect. After some quick calculationswithout consulting any psychic sonographer this timeshe made her own gloomy prediction: six months, tops, then theyd be back.

Ignoring her daughters progressive suggestions, her mum went with what she knew and found work as a cook at a private school nearby, and, in the evenings, washed dishes at the local café.

Mum, youre working yourself to the bone at the stove again! Its like you never left home. You need to soak up the joys of the big city! Why not retrain as a designer, or a sommelier, orat leasta brow technician? Take the tube, grab a latte, blend in a bit.

Im not ready to start studying again, love. Honestly, just not ready. Dont fret about meIll manage, Ill adapt. You focus on making it for yourself, her mum said.

Emma, exasperated with her mothers refusal to move with the times, got on with settling in her own way. She made herself comfortable in cafés where lads from other small towns paid for her drinks. She worked on her mental attitudebuilding psychological and even mystical connections with London, as suggested by an Instagram life coach. She circulated in circles where every conversation seemed to revolve around success and money. Emma was in no hurry to find a proper job or a serious partner. She and London, she thought, needed time to truly connect.

Four months later, her mum paid the rent from her own wages, ditched the dishwashing job, and began cooking for an additional school. Emma, by then, had dropped several online courses, auditioned at a radio station, played an extra in a student film (where she was paid in spaghetti and tinned sauce), and briefly dated two aspiring musicians, one of whom was a complete donkey and the other, a confirmed bachelor with far too many cats.

***

Mum, do you want to do something tonight? Order pizza, watch a film? Im absolutely shattereddont fancy going anywhere, Emma yawned one evening, stretched out in her Churchill pose, while her mother was getting ready in front of the mirror.

You go ahead and order, Ill transfer you some money. Dont bother saving me anyI doubt Ill be hungry when I get back.

Back from where? Emma sat up suddenly, watching her mums reflection.

Ive been invited out for dinner. Her mum laughed a little, suddenly bashful, like a schoolgirl.

By who? Emma replied, not at all pleased for some reason.

There was an Ofsted inspection at our school. I fed the examiners my homemade rissolesyou know, the ones you loved as a child. The chairman jokingly asked me to meet the head chef. It was a laugh, chef at a school and all. Anyway, we ended up having a coffee, as you always say one should. Now hes invited me for dinnerat his house.

What? At a strangers house? For dinner?

Why not?

Dont you think hes expecting more than just dinner?

Emma, Im forty, not married, hes forty-five, handsome, clever, single. Actually, Id be flattered by pretty much anything hes expecting.

You talk like a hopeless country spinsteras if youve got no choice!

I barely recognise you! It was you who dragged me here so Id actually live a bit, not just exist!

Emma was suddenly aware of how the tables had turnedshe and her mum had swapped roles. She ordered the largest pizza available and spent the evening devouring it while wallowing in self-pity. It was nearly midnight and her mum returned, radiating happiness brighter than the hallway light.

Well? Emma asked gloomily.

A lovely fellow, and absolutely localnot a weird one in sight, her mum laughed, disappearing into the shower.

Her mum started going out moreshe visited the theatre, checked out a stand-up show, went to a jazz gig, got a library card, joined the local tea appreciation group, and registered at the GP. Six months later, she had enrolled in a professional cookery course, earned a stack of certificates, and was soon whipping up the sort of meals Jamie Oliver would envy.

Emma wasnt idle either. She didnt want to live off her mum. She applied to the best graduate schemes and firms, but no matter what she did, the promising jobs chewed her up and spat her out. Making no headway, losing touch with her new friends (who had long stopped buying her coffee), she took a job as a barista, then two months later shifted to the night shift behind a bar.

Routine crept in, drawing dark circles under her eyes and stealing her energy. Romance wasnt any better. Drunken bar patrons occasionally made confused advances, but none of them were even in the same league as true love. Soon, Emma got sick of the whole thing.

You know what, Mum? You were rightno point being here. Sorry I dragged you up, we should just go home, Emma announced, storming in after a rough shift.

What are you on aboutgo where? her mother asked as she packed a suitcase.

Home! Where else? Back where the post finally spells our name right and were registered with the doctor. You had it right from the start.

Im already registered here. And I dont want to leave, her mum calmly replied, looking into Emmas puffy eyes.

Well, I do! I want to go home! I hate the stupid tube, coffee costs a small fortune, everyones got a snooty face at the bar. Ive got friends back home, we own our flat, theres nothing for me here. And youre even packing already!

Im moving in with John, her mum announced.

Moving in with Johnwhat do you mean, moving in?

I thought you were sorted nowgrown-up, beautiful, working, living in London. Youve got more opportunities than you can shake a stick at, her mum said earnestly. Im so grateful you brought me here. Without you, Id still be drying up in that dreary village. Here, lifes bursting with energy. Thank you, darling! She kissed Emmas cheeks, but Emma barely managed a smile.

Mum, but what about me? Wholl look after me? Emma asked, now in tears.

Insurance, a regular income, the internetand perhaps a nice local man, just like I found, her mum quoted herself.

So youre just leaving me? Just like that?

Im not leaving youremember your promise, no tears, no drama?

I remember Fine. Give me the house keys, then.

Theyre in the handbag. But I do have one favour to ask.

What is it?

Your grans thinking of moving too. Ive sorted it with her over the phone. Pop in and help her get ready.

Grans coming here?

Yep. I told her all about a better life, new faces, and how things move on. The post office down the roads looking for a counter clerk, and you know Granforty years in the business, she could send a letter to the North Pole without a stamp and itd still get there. Let her take a risk as wellwhile her roots are still going strong.

Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is step out of the old and into the unknown. A change of scenery might just be the spark someone needsfor roots, after all, arent just where were born, but where we choose to let ourselves grow.