I was driving north. I had made up my mind to go to Windermere. I was having a holiday, after all, and people went to Windermere for their holidays. Perhaps not in November, but still. Before I left the town I pulled up at a late-night shop and bought myself razors, toothpaste and a toothbrush. That fixed it; with my plastic bag I was now officially adrift. It was like going through an airport Departure Lounge; there was no turning back.

I had been to the Lake District before; I’d driven a couple of Lakeland Heritage Tours. Besides, I had been there on holiday when I was fifteen; already I had something in common with my son. My parents and I had stayed in a village Bed and Breakfast; we had gone on hikes over the fells, with frequent stops to peruse the map, and my father had worn his shorts which I was old enough to find embarrassing. Governments had crumbled, rain forests had fallen, President Reagan ruled the world and so did AIDS, but you could still rely on one thing, and that was the good old mountains.

I had no idea how to find Lesley and Edward. The only clue I had was a fiat that overlooked the lake, and was above a sweet-shop. The poor little blighter probably hadn’t got any teeth left.

But at least I would be there. Tomorrow, I would be in a place that was familiar to my son. I might glimpse him in the street; I might find them in the phone-book. I felt like a hunter tracking his prey and finding one camping place after another, with its cold ash and empty tins. Each time I spotted a clue there was a bump of recognition. I was living his life, years later; I was treading in his childish footprints. Already I knew his first and second streets; I had spoken to a boy who had played with him and an old lady who had listened to his dreams. And I was getting nearer. I had already covered five years. It was just a matter of time, surely, until I came across a campfire and found its ashes were still warm.

I left Leicester behind. It had become oddly familiar. I presumed this was because my son had lived there, but actually it was the people I’d met who stuck in my mind: the beautiful, bashful Indian wife—how unlike any woman I’d ever known—the elderly Mrs Selwyn, even the woman in the maroon coat who had grabbed me for a moment in belligerent intimacy. It was so daft. A few minutes’ exertions on Lesley’s mattress and eleven years later I was stuck in a Leicester cul-de-sac being called a pervert. I thought of Winifred, the last lady to get off the coach, and I knew there was something vital about her brooch. But I was too tired to work out what it was.

The traffic had disappeared, to wherever it is that traffic goes. I was in the countryside now, driving towards Derby. It was so chilly that my breath smoked; I turned up the heater. Signs loomed out of the dark. I pictured a pint of bitter and a plate of shepherd’s pie. Meal-times had begun to be important.