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"John? Are you listening?” It was Melissa, and she was staring at him impatiently. “Sorry Melissa,” he responded, “I was just remembering things about
- someone I used to know.” He had caught himself just before he said your
mother. “What were you saying?” “Why were you walking in the woods this morning?” she repeated, although this was the first time he had heard the question. “I had some spare time and I thought I’d come back to visit a part of my childhood whilst I was in the area. You won’t believe it yet, but when you are grown up, your childhood is very precious to you. Sometimes you want to go back. How old are you?” “Seven and three quarters,” she said, emphasising the three quarters in the way that only children can. “My daughter is two and a half, and I have a son who’s four.” He paused, considering that fact. Often he could not believe it, but then he only had to remember that cold January night when he had delivered his daughter safely into the world in the living room of an old rented cottage to know that it was true. “My gran lives in Brighton, but she’s visiting us this week.” Melissa flitted to another subject. “Does yours still live here?” His pulse switched gear and the butterflies danced like they were round the most fragrant buddleia bush. Another fact to shake the coincidence and make it more likely that Melissa’s mother was Her. “No, she moved away years ago, whilst I was still a child. She’s with the angels now.” Silly phrase, that one, but he couldn’t break the habit. “I know Brighton though. I used to cycle there from my home in West Norwood, in the summer when the weather was good. I was only ever a fair weather cyclist even though I had a Claude Butler. That’s a special make of bike, like a Raleigh only much better.” Rambling again, he thought. God, I’m nervous. |
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