I know her route, every evening the same. Every evening she tackles it with the exact same level of enthusiasm. She sets off quickly as if to give to passers-by a sense of her earnestness. She walks down the end of our road, takes an immediate left, then another left at the traffic lights and she walks briskly all the way along the main road until she reaches the Graduate pub, with its outdoor decking area, enclosed by large plastic sheets to insulate the smokers from the grip of the early evening chill that hits once any amount of leftover sunshine dissolves into the air. She wears white earphones that fit snugly into her ears and she listens to bad music as she moves, oblivious to cars and bicycles, the pub is directly in her vision as a guiding sign. Once there she goes around the back of the pub to where the bicycle racks are nestled in a corner. She rests awhile and then she cuts across the road and makes her way towards Maxwell’s Park. She enters the park by the playground and the rugby club, then she heads out beyond the athletics track, which is nothing more than a couple of paint marks on a crumbling grit stretch. She finally goes by the smaller football club which is also housed in the park like our boys’ club. The difference being that this club is also in the part of the park that the council don’t bother keeping up.

I put some linguine on to boil and I take the striploin steaks out of the fridge. I know she’s bloody well lying because if she has been back for ages like she has said she would clearly have taken the meat out of the fridge to settle because she knows that I like the meat to have that time out before I griddle it at a scalding temperature. Plus she wouldn’t be still wearing her coat in the house. I can feel the cold emanating from the meat through the white plastic bag. I cut the little red piece of thick Sellotape from the twisted neck of the bag and I turn the steaks out on to a floral plate that my mother gave to me. I treasure it. I keep my irritation with Jenny to myself because I don’t wish to turn into my father. I’d witnessed this carry-on from him when I was growing up, criticizing my mother, checking up on her, always asking questions, too many questions. If she came up short with the answers he might well have given her a dig. I don’t have it in me to go down this road.