Several years ago, my boyfriend and I attended the Hay literary festival, and in an uncharacteristic fit of nostalgia I suggested we drive to the village in which I grew up, around 45 minutes away. We toured the landmarks – my grandparents’ house, where I was born, the primary school I’d attended – and, of course, my childhood home, the small end-of-terrace I shared with my two big brothers and my father, following my mother’s departure to a tiny flat a mile or so away.
Dan and I had been standing outside for no more than a minute or two when the door opened and a friendly older couple asked us if they could help. I told them I’d grown up in their house and they immediately invited us inside for tea. I feel tearful whenever I think of them, not only because their home – now bright, lovingly decorated and happy – holds so many unusual memories for me, but also because the owners were so generous and warm that I somehow felt more at home than I had when I could rightfully call that house my own. As they showed us around, sharing all the work they’d done over the past 30-plus years, the conversation turned to how they’d come to buy the place.
