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Back One Winter Morning Save as PDF
Chapters (56)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. By the same author
  4. Dedication
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. 45
  50. 46
  51. 47
  52. 48
  53. Acknowledgements
  54. Read More
  55. Two Years Later
  56. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

And I know what came next.

Firmly folding over to a new, clean page, I note down today’s date – 11 December 2018 – then write underneath: ‘Fly to New Zealand.’ I am about to close the book and stow it back in my bag, when I am struck by a need to acknowledge my missing mum somehow. I want her to know that she is with me in this decision, that she is always with me, and that she has been every moment since she wasn’t.

Opening the book to the same page, I hastily scrawl: ‘Days without Anna: 352.’

I hadn’t even realised that I was keeping count.

Penguin walking logo

5

Having a time-travelling literary character based on you brings with it a certain number of assumptions – the main one being that I myself am an avid traveller, just like Evangeline.

People meeting me for the first time just presume that I went off backpacking in my gap year. Because I must have, right? I am fearless and intrepid; I seek adventure; I wander the world without a backwards glance. I am Julia Roberts in Eat, Pray, Love and Leonardo DiCaprio in The Beach. Except that I am not.

In truth, I have always been content to remain in the small and secure pocket of my life just the way it is, close to where I grew up in a village outside Cambridge, with more fields and bridleways than buildings and pavements. I consider a two-hour flight to be extreme in terms of distance, so getting myself here to New Zealand has been quite a trial.

I boarded a flight at Heathrow Airport that took me to Dubai, where I wandered, bleary eyes stinging under the many artificial lights, until it was time to go back to the plane. I watched the safety video for the second time, raised polite eyes as the stewardess demonstrated which toggle to pull on the life vest, and wondered if anyone realistically believed that there would be time to place said item over your head in the case of an emergency.

Once we took off again and there was nothing beyond the oval window but blackness, I closed my eyes, twisting the jade-stone ring Anna gave me on my twenty-first birthday around on my finger as I listened to the whirr of the engines, the sporadic ping of call buttons and the muffled suck-whooshing sound of the toilet flush. Time had ceased to matter while I was up there, marooned as I was in the dark, my fate purely dependent on thousands of moving parts over which I had no control. Like life itself, it would only have taken one thing to go wrong for the rest to fall apart.