I’m back. Skillet pan in my hand, cooking a fry-up for my dad and me.

‘I just can’t understand how broadband or internet connection – or what do they say, Wi-Fi? How on earth could that be a deal-breaker?’ rants my father as he stands by the window, mug of tea in hand, looking out into the rolling fields. ‘Who cares if there’s no feckin internet? You don’t move out to the country for the fresh air and the space and walking trails and the peace and quiet to set up a multi-national company, do you?’

I flip his egg and bacon on to his plate and slide a slice of fried buttered bread on the side for good measure.

He winks at me. ‘Ah, that’s the girl. You know what makes the stomach sing, Katie, that’s for sure.’ And he digs in, thoughts of internet and estate agents left far behind as he smothers his plate in brown sauce.

I look around our old kitchen and figure that it’s little wonder that he’s had no serious interest in this house since he put it on the market. I know deep down that it isn’t just the broadband issue. Of course, I adore how the dappled sunlight trickles onto the well-worn countertops, and the rows of lovingly tended herbs that sit along the length of the windowsill in their hand-painted pots. Hand-painted by us, that is, not some famous artisan but messy kids with sticky hands and a complete disregard for form or shape, just content to swirl blobs of bright colour when not flicking it at each other. I’m not sure other people would be as fond of those sentimental features, or the house’s other distinctive quirks.

It is not exactly a masterpiece of contemporary interior design. Dad’s DIY wooden shelving slopes at all angles by the deep ceramic sink. Bleached from the sun and laced with cobwebs, Mum’s hand-sewn yellowing gingham curtains hang at the whistling windows. Squashed into the corner by the door is a small rectangular table with bench seating, resembling a greasy spoon café booth. This is where we ate snacks, threw down our homework, ironing, football boots, hairbrushes and any other manner of daily miscellany that was lost or found. It was also a place for sharing news, somewhere to leave a note or telephone message, and a space for us teenagers to gather before a night out so as not to disturb the grown-ups watching telly in the front room. Underneath that little table sits our dog’s blanket-lined bed, felted with a decade of hair, pushed in against the wall, away from the Converse soles which dangled near it whenever the kitchen was buzzing with life. But I guess it’s been a long time since it was buzzing with life. Me in London, my brothers travelling constantly with their jobs and Rachel married to an Australian. Now, with the baby on the way, it looks like she’s made a life for herself there and has no intention of moving back. Especially as she thinks I’m not bothered about seeing her after my no-show at the airport.

I study the scuffed pale floor tiles and worn dark brown wooden cupboards with aged brass handles, and imagine what the estate agents must be thinking: dated, complete refurb required. There’s retro and then there’s this.

To me, right now, this room, filled with the scent of salty bacon, melted butter and strong, sweet tea, with its dog bowls, muddy boots, fridge magnets, shopping lists and crumb-filled toaster – it’s perfect, it’s all my favourite memories under one roof. Sitting here, I feel like I am my real self, no pretence, no unattainable aspiration. To be honest, this kitchen couldn’t be more opposite to the one at the Marchand. There, everything has its place: every utensil, every plate, every piece of equipment, every morsel of food, even every person has to fight to justify their place. But here you can just be, and that’s enough. Everything is just wherever it is, wherever you left it. At the Marchand, each plate is executed within an inch of its life, every mouthful studied and analysed. Here, in this family kitchen, each plate is chipped and cracked with age and use, every mouthful is a stroke of luck that someone else didn’t get there first. Food is for the hungry, for comfort and for celebration. Dinners are made up of what’s in season, what’s local, what needs using up and what bloody tastes good. And then, to top it all off, there’s always plenty of it, so by the time you leave the table, you should be feeling a hell of a lot better than when you sat down.

Can it be that I love them both? Does it even make sense that I love the natural easiness that’s here but crave the challenge and the excitement of the high-class kitchen? I’ve only been away from it for a few days and, already, I’m missing it; I’m feeling that restlessness in my fingers.

Dad looks pensive as he mops up oozy golden yolk with his bread. ‘Can you believe this, Katie? Three different viewings and not one of them showed the slightest bit of interest, walked in and then just nodded politely and walked out again. I mean, what is it they want? It’s a great house. Five bedrooms, two bathrooms, garage, land. What more could you possibly want? I don’t understand it.’

But I do. He’s right, it is a great house, but to the prospective buyers, fresh from the city with country dreams and contemporary, urban expectations, this doesn’t sell rustic charm, just cluttered old bazaar. And once they discover there’s no broadband connection, they write it off straight away. So, without even going upstairs, or out the back, or looking at the views or walking the grounds, they turn on their heels straight back out the front door with a ‘thanks but no thanks’.

Of course, it serves me that there’s no interest. I can’t hide my feelings about how much this house means to me. I run my finger over the rivets on the large wooden table and remember all the memories I have, some happy, some sad. This is where we sat to have our hair cut. The Wonky Fringe Salon. Usually the last night of the holidays before school restarted. So not only did we have to wake up early, but we had to wake up looking like shorn convicts or novice nuns. Mum was no hairdresser, so she just kept cutting until things evened themselves out and we ended up looking scalped. This is also where my mother sat one night when I had just turned thirteen, as everyone else settled into their beds and my dad watched TV in the front room. She asked me in for a cup of tea and handed me the scissors.

‘Katie, now that you are a teenager, I know you’re grown-up enough, so I’m going to need you to do me a very special favour.’ And she unwrapped the scarf from her head and I saw that there were only light wiry wisps of her once wavy blonde hair. ‘I hate to see it fall out. Will you cut it for me?’ I did it. I swallowed every tear that streamed down my cheeks and I just let my nose run, afraid that I’d betray my upset through sniffling.

She smiled at me through her own watery eyes and told me that I did a great job. And then she kissed me on the forehead and told me that I had so much to look forward to, so much to be excited about.

‘Take all your chances, baby. Don’t be scared, because I’ll always be cheering you on, okay?’

And then all my tears streamed down my face, sobs bubbled up from my throat, and I shuddered with every part of my body as I sat at this table and held her like I never did before.

I realise something now for the first time. How even in the most awful, dire, cruel circumstances, in her own quiet, selfless, brave way, Mum took charge. She made the next decision about what was best for her. And I think Martha did that too. And maybe that’s what I should be doing. This is not the time to be vocal and selfish and fearful about uncertainly, about the unknown. It’s time to be brave.

My dad puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘You know, sometimes, when it’s just me, I call out her name.’

My eyes sting with tears, with raw, unbidden emotion. I look up at him.

‘I know it’s pure madness, but I stand at the bottom of the stairs and call out, “Catherine! Catherine” and in that split second I can convince myself I’ll get an answer. That there still could be an answer. For that split second before the silence floods in and dashes my crazy hope all over again, it’s just like she’s here. And we’re the way we were. Just a normal, beautiful, ordinary moment where I call her from the bottom of the stairs and she answers me.’

I study my dad’s face, his eyes closed as he explains to me in his own way how he is trying to get back and move on all at the same time. And it hits me. It hits me how unfair I’ve been. How I’ve not let him take charge. Asking him to hold on here, amongst the memories, beautiful and painful, while we’ve all left and gotten on with our lives. Poor dad has stayed here, all along, until we were ready. Or rather until I was ready.

I look to the cork board by the fridge, where ripped-out magazine and newspaper travel articles about Australia – flight deals, holiday packages, stopovers, places to see, places to stay – are pinned on every surface.

I point over to it. ‘You’ve been doing some research then, for your adventures?’

He looks at me and nods. ‘Shall I show you?’

‘I’d love nothing more.’ It’s time now. It’s time for my father to move on, it’s time to let go.

We spend the rest of the day gutting the downstairs and assigning all unessential items to one of three boxes: bin, charity or storage. It’s hard to go through everything. To me, every corner is filled with Mum’s life – her photo albums and books, her handwriting and her dishes: a place for everything and everything in its place.

There is a part of all of us, I think, that wants to leave the house the way it was, a perfect time capsule. How could we change this house where my mother raised us? How can we give a single thing away? How can we offer up this house that no one else has ever owned? This house was the only place we ever knew her. The answer to every question is that we can’t, but we have to. Just like you can’t imagine the world will go on without the person who died, somehow it does. You imagine that you won’t be able to put one foot in front of the other, and yet somehow you do. You want to hold on to everything forever, but you can’t. There it is. Holding on and letting go pulls you apart. It sucks.

Once all the clutter is out of the way, the house looks so much bigger. In my mind I thought it would look bare and soulless, but it doesn’t. It looks light and spacious and airy and I can see that my dad looks a whole lot lighter too.

‘Katie!’ I hear my dad shout from the attic. ‘Come here! Quick!’

I drop the bag I’m sorting through, run in to the corridor and start climbing the attic stairs, peering upwards into the half-light, trying to work out if the rasping crackle in his voice is excitement or despair. I reach the top and see him knelt in front of a large cream box, lined with a frilled trim. His hands are draped with a trail of white, scalloped lace and beaded satin.

‘Your mother’s wedding dress. We couldn’t find it for Rachel’s wedding. I couldn’t think where it had got to and I turned the place upside down looking for it to no avail. Yet lo and behold, I come up here today and I nearly tripped over it.’ My dad is shaking his head in disbelief. He holds it to his face and breathes it in. ‘She was a vision in it. An absolute vision.’ He looks up at me, his blue eyes pooling with tears. ‘The older you get, the more like her you get, you know, Katie. Sometimes, I have to do a double take myself.’

I smile and crouch down next to him, stroking the soft, sheer fabric of a dress that was only worn once, by only one woman, so very long ago, but yet has a sense of special connection, almost a message.

My dad looks at me. ‘If I was daft I’d nearly say it’s her way of telling us something.’ He rubs his eyes as he says this, embarrassed at sounding foolish and overly sentimental. But I agree with him.

I pull the dress its whole length from the box. It’s gorgeous: vintage lace, simple, elegant and exactly the kind of dress that Rachel would have loved to have worn on her own wedding day, to feel close to Mum, to feel like she was there in some small way too.

‘I’ll pack this up, Dad. Why don’t you go down and put on the kettle? Think we’ve earned ourselves a tea break.’

He nods and climbs backwards down the creaky attic stairs.

Rachel’s already missed out on wearing it for her special day and marriage certainly isn’t on the cards for me anytime soon. I retie the damp-stained satin bow and blow the dust off the lid, knowing without doubt that we are keeping this but still kind of unsure what for. But it’s been in the family this long, it’s part of us, and I can’t bear the idea of being the one to sling it away.

---

We scrub the tiles and the walls and all the surfaces until they are gleaming and reeking of a strong lemon-scented bleach. The curtains are soaking in a basin and tomorrow I’ll hand-sew any rips or tears that I find before I rehang them.

‘I think you’re going to have this place snapped up in no time now, Dad,’ I say as we sit down with a mug of tea, our hands raw and wrinkly from our big scrubbing session.

He smiles to himself and puts his hand on mine. ‘You mean I might get to visit my first grandchild before my sixtieth birthday after all?’

‘Definitely! You’re not sixty till next year!’ I tell him. But I see an uncertainty cloud over his eyes.

‘There’s still no Wi-Fi connection, no matter how clean and tidy it is.’

‘It’s not all about Wi-Fi and connections, Dad. Some people don’t want to be connected! Right, time we took charge. Tomorrow we’ll tackle upstairs. I’m going to take loads of shots of the rooms in the best light in the morning, then we’ll write up a brand new advert, I’ll upload it onto loads of independent sites and forums when I go into town and you wait and see. We may not be able to sell immediately but we could rent in the first instance and you’ll be out of the country by this time next month, now how does that sound?’

I glance at a tiny, grainy framed photo that’s on the top of a stacked box. It’s Mum and Dad holding me as a baby, standing outside the gate of this house. I remember my dad telling me years later that they went out as teenagers and then for a variety of stupid reasons, they broke up.

‘It took me that time apart to realise what I’d lost,’ he’d said, ‘and so I put everything in to winning Catherine Kelly back. Thank goodness I had the guts to pursue it and thank goodness she had the guts to give us another chance. Otherwise, we’d have missed out on the big life adventure that awaited us. Sometimes, it’s just that the time isn’t right. But when it is, everything else falls together and you can find yourself in full flight.’

My father lifts an eyebrow. ‘You really think so? You think someone will want it?’

‘I know so. Now drink up and get to bed, Dad, we’ve got a big day ahead. And god knows how many big days after that.’

---

The past is just that. I have to bring my head into the present. It’s time to take charge and start looking to the future. Because, one way or another, tomorrow is going to come and I have to be – no, correction, I want to be – part of it. I want to make the very most of every moment and every chance I’ve got. And I want my dad to do the same.

I photograph every room of the house and type up a description as I would write a menu, understanding that we are not just putting a pile of bricks on the market, but offering the experience of living here. Once I begin to type, the words flow, as if the spirit of the house knows exactly what it wants to express.

I spell-check what I’ve written, format it and, along with the photos I’ve taken, I pass it by Dad the next morning, just to make sure he’s okay with it.

He squints into the small screen of my phone to read the text and swipes through each photograph. And then he looks up to me, rubbing his cheeks with both hands, as if he is literally trying to wipe the smile from his face.

‘With an advert like that, I’d better start packing. Australia here I come!’