Lydia is on my doorstep with a child – Harriet. No warning, they are just here. I must have given Lydia my new address, but I don’t remember doing it. Did I scribble it on the last postcard I sent, the one that said I’d passed year one of college?
‘Can we come in?’ asks Lydia.
I can’t stop staring at Harriet: two years old, beautiful, with dark hair touching her shoulders. Neat and graceful, like Lydia. And I see, with a mixture of sadness and joy, that she also has the look of Cal.
I am so pleased to see Harriet at last. I take her in my arms, holding her tight. I give her my old teddy bear, the one I’ve had since I was small. Zora has one just the same. She hugs him to her chest. How like Cal she looks.
I make egg sandwiches for lunch that Lydia doesn’t eat. She doesn’t look well. Why are they here? The question keeps popping into my head. Why are they here after all this time?
There is a park nearby. We take Harriet to the swings. I’ve brought my camera. I capture her smile as she comes down the baby slide. We sit on the edge of the sandpit, our sandalled feet resting on its surface. It’s hot, the sand is too hot. I lift Harriet out and onto my lap in case it burns her.
‘I never thought you and Zora would ever live apart,’ says Lydia. ‘What happened?’
‘I didn’t get the grades for Manchester.’
‘I know, but—’
I cut in and say, ‘I had sex with somebody. I lost my virginity.’ I keep my voice low, in case Harriet might somehow understand if she hears. In telling Lydia this, I’m letting her know that I’m as much an adult as she is – as much as Zora is. And I’m saying I can lead a separate life, one without Zora at its centre.
‘Male or female?’ Lydia asks.
‘Why would you think it was a female?’
‘Why not?’ she replies with a mocking smile.
I just say, ‘His name was Martin. We broke up soon after.’
‘Welcome to the world of grown-ups,’ Lydia answers. There is bitterness in her voice.
We both fall silent. Lydia scoops up handfuls of sand and scatters them distractedly. Her nails look bitten. Then she says, ‘The Robinsons have gone away. They’ve gone to India to find themselves. Of course they have. They’re such stereotypes. I’m all on my own. I can’t stay in that big house with her, on my own. Will you do me a favour? Will you look after Harriet until this evening? I need to see my father. He and Joyce have split up. Now they’re not together, I’m sure I can persuade him to let me come home again, but it will be a lot easier if I don’t have to take her with me.’
It’s just for a day and I’ll get to know Harriet better, so of course I say yes. I can’t believe she’s here at last.
But I soon find out that I don’t have the knack with toddlers. Nappies and safety pins defeat me. I’m not sure what they like to eat. Harriet won’t take anything I try to feed her. She wants her mother. She starts to scream. The sound is so piercing, so full of distress, and she won’t be quiet. She is turning blue with anger and fright and the pain of missing her mother. Evening turns to night, but Lydia hasn’t returned. I fall asleep with Harriet in my arms an hour or two before dawn.