I still get that little flutter in my chest the second the train pulls into Basildon. Proper daft, I know, but there it is. The platform always smells the same, damp concrete and that faint chip-shop greasiness that somehow feels like home more than any posh East London coffee ever could. Mum was already at the door when I walked up the path, apron on, cheeks pink from the oven, shouting “About bloody time, you” before I’d even reached the step. She pulled me in for one of those squeezes that nearly cracks your ribs and I just melted into it.
The kitchen was pure chaos in the best way. Yorkshires rising like little golden clouds on the tray, gravy bubbling away thick and dark, and the joint looking proper proud of itself. Dad was in his usual spot by the window, newspaper half-folded, giving me that quiet nod he does. My brothers were already at it, of course. “Look who decided to grace us with her presence,” the older one said, pinching a roast potato straight off the tray like he still lives here. “Thought you’d gone all soft up in Hackney, sis.” I told him to shut up and get the plates out before I nicked his share of the crackling. He just laughed that loud bark of a laugh and did as he was told. They always do, eventually.
We sat down and it was the same beautiful mess it always is. Mum fussing that the carrots weren’t soft enough, Dad asking if work was still “behaving itself,” and the boys winding each other up about football and whose turn it was to mow the lawn. I kept my work stories light, just the funny bits about the under-25s forgetting how numbers work. No point bringing the stern bank version of me to the table. Here I get to be the soft one, the one who still steals the best Yorkshire and hides it under her mash like she’s twelve again. Mum caught me at it and just winked. “Some things never change, love.”
Halfway through second helpings the conversation drifted, the way it always does. One of the boys started taking the absolute piss out of my accent, claiming I’d gone all “London posh.” I told him where to stick it, thick Essex coming out stronger the more I laughed. We were proper roaring by the time the apple crumble came out. Mum’s crumble is still the best thing on earth, warm and soft with that bit of crunch on top, cream poured so thick it sits like a cloud. I had two helpings and didn’t even pretend to feel guilty.
Afterwards we stayed at the table longer than we needed to, just talking rubbish and watching the light fade outside the window. Dad put the kettle on without being asked. The boys cleared up for once, surprisingly. I sat there with my tea, listening to them all, and felt that quiet loyalty settle deep in my chest again. This is the bit I never say out loud properly. No matter how many late nights at the bank or random strangers I bring home, this table is the one place that always pulls me back. Proper grounded. Proper me.
I caught the later train home, belly full and heart softer than it had any right to be. The city lights looked different somehow, less sharp. I kept thinking about next fortnight already. Same roast. Same banter. Same feeling that everything else can wait. Some Sundays just fix you without trying. This was one of them.
