“No,” I say slowly, “I don’t mind.” There is something I want, some defence. I remember. “Do you have any cigarettes? I gave them up, but just now I think I’d like one.” She reaches out a package and I take one. She lights it for me, and I see that her hands are smooth, but the nails are bitten to the tips of the long fingers. “Thank you. It’s been a long time.” I sit back, holding the tea and the cigarette, which makes me dizzy; she notices there isn’t an ashtray and gets up to find a saucer.

“I think I’m pleased you came back,” I am saying as she sits again. “I was wondering, what’s happened to Fletcher?”

“Fletcher?” she says, her voice high and astonished and wounded. “You want to know about the dog?” She catches herself, remembers what must have been her resolve, and quietens.

“Fletcher’s very old now, and he’s a little crippled, but we still have him. Sometimes we talk about having him put down, but none of us can bear to do it. I don’t think he suffers particularly, he’s just stiff and can’t get around much.”

“Oh.” I think of all the other things that might be asked, and hesitate. I want to know something about Katie first, how she is now and what her life is like; I want to know how far she may understand. What kind of person is she?

“I made a cake last night,” I say. “Would you like some? I think it should be good.”

“Yes, thank you, that would be nice.” She is nodding politely.

I cut her a slice, but don’t have one myself. I have never cared much myself for sweet things. She takes a bite, nods again. “It’s very good,” she says. “I like plain white cake.”

I lean forward, watching her face intently. “Tell me what other things you like. Tell me what you do now.”

She settles into the chair, more relaxed; she must feel the advances she has made, must know that questions mean I am breaking down in her favour.

“Well, I’ll be going to university this fall. I’m planning on majoring in archeology, and maybe next summer I’ll be going on a dig in South America, but I don’t know yet. I’ve applied, but it depends how well I do in the course.”

“Why archeology?” I wonder at the kind of interest in the past that consumes such people, the painstaking care with which they resurrect some dead artifact and try to breathe life into it again. I try to lighten the awkwardness between us, but it’s been a long time since I’ve made a joke, and I feel her pull away from me as soon as I say it:

“You enjoy digging up old relics? Like me?”