It was such a beautiful morning. An hour passed. I drove through the industrial areas—Warrington, signs to Wigan—and speeded North. The countryside changed; it was emptier now, with more sky on top. Perhaps she had become a well-known sociologist; she went to Lancaster University and lectured about the changing patterns of family life in the ’80s. She knew all the statistics but what was she telling her own son? When he put up his hand to ask about his own family pattern did her fluency desert her?

I wasn’t going to feel bitter. That wouldn’t do us any good. Who wants a large strange man on the doorstep haranguing your mother? This was one of the things I had decided. I hadn’t decided much else, actually. I had never been much of a planner—if I had, I’d have had a better job by now; I’d be running my own business and using my brains. I hadn’t planned what I was going to do when I met them—reveal my identity at once or pretend I’d come to read the meter? I hadn’t planned what I’d do if she was married with two children and a socking great husband blocking the doorway. For some reason I couldn’t picture this. She wasn’t the marrying type; I had convinced myself. If you’d known Lesley, you would understand.

Another hour had passed. It was 12.30. The countryside was showing its bones now; rocks jutted from fields. It was bleak and bare and after Lancaster the motorway was emptier. I was getting near.

I sang out loud that Frank Ifield number I remember you—actually I didn’t like it much but I could do the yodelling bit, You-hoo. Edward would admire that; not many men can yodel. I could teach him how to do it, and my four different whistles. It was a shame for them to die out.

KENDAL AND THE LAKES. I indicated left and turned off the motorway. Ahead, I caught my first glimpse of the mountains. They were piled up in the distance like stormclouds—rosy pink and purple. They were breathtaking. I thought of Edward growing up amongst such beauty and felt an unfamiliar sensation towards Lesley: gratitude. I remember too, distant bells …

As I neared Windermere I slowed down. Now I was close I wanted to delay it; I’d felt this way in Leicester. Driving along the motorway was easy, my head whirled with possibilities. Now I felt nervous. I crawled along at 30 mph. The road twisted between drystone walls; behind them, sheep bleated. A Landrover flashed its lights and overtook me; it was spattered with mud. Even in the coach I could breathe the sharp new air.

What was I going to do with him? Take him out for a hamburger and then drive back to London? Move nearby and become part of his life? My palms were sticky. I felt I was going on a first date.

I turned off the road and drove into Windermere. The high street was narrow; I barely scraped past the parked cars. On each side were houses with Bed and Breakfast signs, all with Vacancies.