was a statement rather than a question, the verdict of someone who knew her well. Harriet nodded, disappointed in him. She had expected more in return for her story.
Simon smiled, sensing as much. ‘Thank you for telling me all this. It’s comforting to rejoin broken ends, or to have them joined for me, since I’m long past involving myself in anything of the kind.’ A small gesture indicated the chaotic kitchen, hinted at the decaying house beyond it, and told her that Simon was indeed past involvement in the common processes of life. She felt both sorry for him and angry at his withdrawal from the world. For the first time since she had arrived she saw him as himself, not illuminated by Kath or herself. As a result her need to know, father or not, released its choking grip on her a little.
She asked, ‘Why are you?’
He chose to ignore the question, but disarmed her. Talking almost to himself, he said, ‘Kath was unusual. She was alive, vibrating with life, like nothing else around.’ This time the gesture took in the extinguished town, as it must have been in the post-war years. Then and now, Harriet thought. ‘I used to love to see her, and listen to her. She lit everything up.’
‘I know. For a long time I haven’t bothered to see her as anyone but my mother. In the kitchen, cooking meals. Ordinary. Then all of a sudden I saw a young girl looking out of her face, when she told me about you. It’s one of the reasons why I wanted to meet you. I came from London to find you.’
As soon as the words were out, she knew that they would have been far better left unsaid. That she had come at all was a threat all over again, to have come a long way, with a list of reasons, was too much of an intrusion.
Simon looked at an old kitchen clock, almost obscured on the mantelpiece by sheaves of yellowing bills and papers. Harriet knew that they had been sitting at the table for almost two hours. Stiffly, but deliberately, he stood up.
‘I’m glad you came. I’m pleased to hear that Kath is well, and happy. She deserved that.’ He had asked her in, and she had accepted his hospitality. His courtesy would continue, but it was clear that she couldn’t hope for anything beyond it.
He held out his hand now, and reluctantly she shook it. ‘Perhaps you’ll give her my best wishes,’ Simon added. ‘I don’t think any other greeting would be appropriate, after thirty years.’ If there was a twitch of a smile, it was gone before Harriet could be sure. ‘This way,’ Simon said. ‘I’m sorry the passage is so dark.’
There was the crumbling hallway again, the front door and then the empty street. Simon shook her hand once again, as if she was the well-meaning but unwelcome official he had first taken her for, then closed the door.
The autumn afternoon was already almost over. There were yellow lights showing in two or three of the windows opposite, and in contrast with the cosiness Simon’s house seemed morbidly chilly and dark. Angry with herself, smarting with the rejection, Harriet began to walk away.
A small boy on roller skates rattled over the uneven paving stones, wobbled, and almost fell. He grabbed at her arm to save himself.
‘Be careful,’ Harriet warned, and he gaped up at her, dirty-faced and cheerful.
‘You’ve never been in there, have you?’ He jerked his head at Simon’s gate.
‘Yes, I have. Why not?’
He whistled, pretending admiration. ‘Cos he’s mad. My sister said. You want to watch he doesn’t get you.’ Delighted with his dire warning he launched himself off again.
Harriet watched him almost collide with Kath’s lamp-post. Even in her girlhood, Kath had said, the little children tended to avoid Simon’s house. Now, a solitary old man existing in a nest of newspapers and rubbish, he was a bogeyman to frighten another generation. Sadness for him overcame Harriet’s bitterness and hungry curiosity once more, and made her want to know about him for his own sake. She looked up at the house but it was obstinately dark.
Harriet turned away without any idea where she was heading. She walked the length of her grandparents’ old street, looking through the still-open curtains at the blue eyes of television sets, tea-tables, homework. She rounded a corner, went on without the intention of going anywhere.
At length she came to a park with elaborate railings, and took a tarmac path under some trees. A boy and a girl in school uniforms stood against the peeling bole of a plane tree, arms wrapped around each other, faces pressed together. Harriet passed them, came to a bench next to an overflowing litter bin. She sat down on the bench and dead brown leaves scuttled like insects around her feet.
She sat on the bench for a long time, without moving. She didn’t even think of going back to the station and the conclusion of the London train. The boy and girl drifted by, white faces turning to peer at her in the dusk, frightened of being spied on. Harriet waited until they were out of sight, then stood up and shook herself. She was cold, and swung her arms to warm her fingers as she headed for the sound of traffic on the main road.
In the centre of a parade of shops she came to an Indian restaurant. It was opening as everything else closed up, and Harriet peered past the menu, mounted in an arched wooden frame and set off with plush drapes, into an interior of white cloths and twinkly lights. She was hungry as well as cold.
The restaurant was completely empty. A waiter in a white jacket came forward, beaming at her, and they went through a pantomime of deciding which table would suit her best. She chose one beside a green-lit tank of morose tropical fish, and ordered a bottle of wine to go with her food, because there were no halves.
Harriet couldn’t remember ever having sat down alone to dinner in a restaurant. It seemed appropriate that she should do it here, where she had felt her isolation so strongly. Her awareness of it was just as strong, but it seemed to matter less now. She thought about Leo, and the hundreds of dinners they had shared. Her memories were affectionate, but Leo himself seemed a long way off. She didn’t wish that he was here with her, or that she would be going back to him.
The smiling waiter brought her lamb pasanda, paratha and saag ghosht, and poured out the wine for her.
‘You are living near here?’ He had a very dark face, and a gipsyish gap between his top teeth. Harriet smiled back.
‘No. I’ve come from London.’
‘Nice place,’ he told her. She wasn’t sure whether he meant here or there, but it didn’t matter. She suddenly felt comfortable, wedged between the fishtank and the tablecloth that looked purple and green under the multicoloured lights.
She ate everything, and drank most of the wine because she was thirsty and because the food was so spicy it made it seem innocuous. Afterwards, while she was drinking a cup of watery coffee, some other customers filtered in. A young couple stared covertly at her, and two businessmen talked in loud voices. The feeling of being at home vanished at once. She called for the bill and hurriedly paid it. Her waiter shook her hand as she left. ‘Come back again.’
‘Perhaps.’
Outside she took a deep breath. She knew that she was rather drunk, but perhaps that would be a help. Without needing to consult her map, she retraced her steps to Simon’s house.
It took a long time for him to answer the door. Harriet’s knuckles were bruised with knocking. At last the door creaked open and he loomed in front of her. When it was too late she thought of running away, like the children.
‘I’ve come to ask,’
