So Doris and Audrey and I had stayed and watched as Humphrey packed up his best telescope and put on his ‘party cords’， and went on his way.
The bathroom was always the coldest room in Humphrey’s house, so it was only possible to have baths in the summer. Taking advantage of the warm weather, I took a bath, read several chapters of my book and shaved my legs. Then I came out, with the idea that I would watch a film on our newly acquired VHS player.
But there was something lying on the doormat. And it hadn’t been there when Humphrey left. It was addressed to Mrs James. It often took me a little time to remember that that was me. And I knew it was from her.
She always called me ‘Mrs James’。 It was her way of reminding me of the permanence of my decisions, of reminding me she’d never change her name for a man. But my taking Humphrey’s name had been unconscious. Accidental, almost.
I picked up the envelope and laid it on the sofa cushion. I sat beside it. It could contain something good or something bad, but it was from her so it would probably be both.
It took me an hour or two before I could open it. In that time, I reasoned, Humphrey would almost be off the motorway and at the observatory. Probably having spilt some coffee from his car thermos on his party cords. The sun had rolled its way across the carpet and now a sliver of light lay warming my toes. Doris came into the kitchen, pecking at the gaps between the stone tiles in the hopes of finding some corn.
I should have known when I pulled at the envelope and the triangle flap came away easily, the adhesive still gummy.
Peeping at me from inside the open envelope were Meena and Jeremy. His eighth birthday wasn’t far away, but in the photograph he was a toddler still, his arms up in celebration, wearing only a striped T-shirt and a nappy. Meena had her arms around his middle and she was laughing.
The last time I saw her, she’d looked exactly as she did in the picture.
Meena and baby Jeremy were living in Acton, in a houseshare with an older couple who were both musicians in a London orchestra. Jeremy was somewhere between one and two. It was the middle of July and the sun had been relentless for weeks. As I’d passed signs for London along the motorway, my palms had started to sweat. I had this light-headed feeling that I wasn’t really in the car at all, but that it was one of the many dreams I’d had where I tried to drive to Meena only to discover I was lost, or that my car was broken or that she wasn’t where I was driving to. I felt like I was watching my car navigate the busy motorway, rather than being in control of it. I wondered if I’d die on the way to see her, and then fretted over why I felt that I would be okay with dying in a car accident as long as I was on my way to see her.
When I pulled up outside the house with the mint green door, I tried to turn off the engine without putting the gear into neutral, and then I couldn’t remember how to put the handbrake on.
I was sweating. Not just in the usual places but everywhere – in my hairline, on my thighs, on my bottom cheeks. My hands had left a wet pair of prints on the steering wheel. There were dark patches under the armpits of my striped sundress. I opened the glovebox. Tissues, wet wipes, even a map would have done to at least try to dry myself down. All that was in the glovebox was a single dessert spoon. I cursed myself for letting Humphrey borrow my car.
I’d spent so long wondering what I would wear to meet Jeremy, and to meet Meena as a mother. I’d fixed my hair – only to sweat my way down the M25 until I was an unrecognizable mess. I cursed myself for wanting to look nice for her.
Sitting in the boiling car, it was only getting worse. I pulled the keys from the ignition and got out. The street was quiet, the houses merrily baking in the hot sun.
I noticed a small hand at the warped flowered glass of the front door before I’d even walked down the path. It disappeared and then came back. He was real. And he was waving to me.
And then she opened the door.
‘Hello, Mrs James.’ It took me a while to take her in. She’d cut her hair and now it brushed against her collar bone. She was wearing an overall dress, and on her hip she held her child. Though she was at least forty-two by then, she seemed so much younger. And the child. He was ethereal, like his mother. He had blond hair that was curled in tight ringlets and her blue eyes. He reached out for me, unafraid, wanting me to hold him. Meena passed him to me. I was surprised by the weight of him on my hip as he struggled, trying to grab my earring in his tiny fist.
I followed her into a blue kitchen with a high ceiling. The walls were covered in sheet music. There was a cello in the corner and an open but empty violin case on the kitchen table.