The Language of the Return

The article announcing my return described the village as the place I had escaped. I had supplied neither the verb nor an objection to it. Escape made a serviceable opening, and by the time I read the proof I had acquired the deadline-conscious belief that correcting a flattering distortion was an indulgence.

At the harbour, a former neighbour asked what exactly I had escaped from. He spoke lightly enough to permit a light reply. I mentioned the buses, which stopped running before anything interesting began, and he laughed.

It was not untrue. It was merely too small to carry the meaning I had allowed it to acquire.

I had left because I was impatient, because I wanted work unavailable there, because being known could feel like being permanently described. I had returned because a commission required photographs of the coast and because my mother had moved inland. Neither movement constituted a verdict on everyone who stayed.

Over the next fortnight, residents offered me stories about changes in the village. I noticed how readily I selected those that supported decline: a boarded shop, a cancelled festival, the absence of someone I remembered. A new workshop and a thriving evening class fitted less elegantly into the account already forming in my head.

I asked the editor to change the opening. He suggested "homecoming", which was kinder and no more accurate. We settled on a sentence saying when I had arrived.

The finished article was less dramatic than the first draft. My neighbour said he recognised the village in it, though not every detail. I found myself oddly relieved by that reservation. Recognition, unlike possession, could apparently survive disagreement.