I was dead tired. There was no question of driving. So I turned off the headlights and made my way down the aisle, to the back of the coach. I felt as shaky as an old man in hospital. We kept blankets in one of the overhead racks, so I bundled up one as a pillow, wrapped myself in two more, and lay down on the back seat. It was narrow, and my nose was cold. A passing lorry shook the coach. I stuffed my knuckles into my mouth, and fell asleep.

I was going into a shop to buy Clearasil for Edward’s pimples. It was the butcher’s shop in Windermere but it had changed to a chemist’s now, and instead of the lake around the corner I knew there was the sea. I could hear its murmur.

I said solemnly: ‘My son will soon be a man.’

Somebody passed me a package, I couldn’t see their face.

I took it and announced: ‘The first pimple. Know what it heralds?’ I sighed. ‘Love. Poor little sod.’

Outside the shop I looked for him, but the street was empty. It was longer now, and stretched into the distance.

‘Poor little sod,’ I said. ‘And pray, will any woman want him?’

I stopped and listened. I couldn’t hear a sound except, somewhere beyond the buildings, the creak, creak of a pushchair. And when I looked down at my hands, there was nothing in them.

When I woke I thought: Edward and Victoria. They were such quaint, old-fashioned names for a liberated woman—why had their mother chosen them? Her children weren’t growing up amongst crinolines, it was all AIDS now, and rubbish in the hedges. My coach tours didn’t take the rubbish routes, we took the scenic ones, but you couldn’t fool me anymore.

My mouth was dry and I felt irritable. Stupid woman. One father didn’t exist and the other one, Barry, sounded randy as a tomcat—some father he made. Did she really think that their Christian names would keep her children safe?

To my surprise, it was 10.30 at night. I had cramp in my left shin. I needed to meet a human being and see if I could still behave normally; I felt I’d been alone for days.

I climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. I pushed in Ricky Nelson. But the tape burbled and his voice slurred. Hello, Mary Lou … He sounded as if he was sinking into a tub of glue. Goodbye, heart … He choked to a stop, and when I tried to pull the tape out it had caught in the machine. I left it dangling. It swung, as I pulled into the fog.

I drove on until a sign loomed up, indicating Peterborough. I hadn’t come very far at all.

I sat in an Indian restaurant in Peterborough, it was called Curry Paradise. I watched a couple fondling each other. She was bigger than him and rested her cheek on top of his head; she adjusted her position as his hand slid up her thigh—I could tell he was doing this because he had a smug look. Sitar music played; the place was almost empty and as red as a womb. However much I ate there was still mounds of stuff in my dishes.