The Madonna of Bolton

I put the phone down and sit up straight, staring into the darkness. By the side of my bed the alarm clock flashes 02.45.

People always say that when the phone rings in the middle of the night you know it’s going to be bad news. But the funny thing is, when I was woken up by the sound of my mobile, the first thing I thought was that a friend was out drinking and wanted to know if I was in town – either that or they wanted to share a drunken ‘I love you’ experience. God knows I’ve put my friends through enough of those myself.

‘You know what,’ I’ll slur to whoever I’m with at the end of a night out, ‘I think you’re brilliant. I really really love you.’

But I shake the words out of my head. No, this time it isn’t that. It isn’t that at all. Although right now I wish more than anything else that it was.

I stand up and pull on my dressing gown. If I quickly pack my things and leave London now I can be back in Bolton by the start of the day.

I pad into the kitchen and fill the kettle. As I take out a mug and drop in a teaspoon of instant coffee, I suddenly feel a twist of frustration. It’s been months and months since I was last home; there are so many unhappy memories there and so many relationships I’m finding it difficult to deal with. But yesterday, as if from nowhere, I finally found myself wanting to go back. I suddenly felt homesick and wanted to reconnect with my family. I wanted see the very people I’ve been running away from.

Then this happened, one of the things I’ve been dreading most for my whole life. And now I’m being called home for a completely different reason, a reason that makes me feel sick with fear – fear that, after all this time staying away, I might just have left it too late to go back.