brrring! brrring! vibrating from the pay phone.

Ewan from the Coach and Horses:

Fifteen pounds. Cash in hand. 8 p.m. sharp.

Yea or nay? Plenty’ll be grateful if you’re not, Jessie.

Postman opening the garden gate

and me, running down three flights of stairs to check

and never an invitation to go to London

and discuss your future plans, Miss O’Donnell,

not one lifeline out of hell.

She took her eyes off the road and nodded expectantly, as if to indicate Your turn.

And say what? Instead, I delicately suggested she let go of past sufferings. Whereupon she shot me the kind of blatantly distrustful look that accused me of being a very recent perpetrator of crimes against Jessie O’Donnell.

I guessed she was right.

We swept through deserted valleys with mountains in the foreground or in the shadowy, surreal distance, suspended mid-air with clouds rising above and beneath them.

Crevice. Cornice. Crevasse. Precipice. Gullies. Spires.

Helicopters deposited dynamite to precipitate avalanches. Trees wore white hats. Prehistoric paragliding birds with single wings flew overhead. Cross-country skiers wore primary-coloured ski-suits, blue, red, yellow shaped z’s of padded nylon zigzagging a trail of shaved snow, disappearing into forests or seemingly over the edge.

We wound upwards towards isolated terraced hamlets, and down towards the tranquillity of a deserted lake surrounded by a prayerful assembly of fir trees.

I could smell pine.

It was revitalizing.

High above, springs burst out of the hillside like frozen stalactites.

‘You mentioned Terry earlier.’

We were looking into the green lake, the blurred forms of trees reflected in it like swaying nuns.

An underground stream rumbled beneath our feet.

‘Tell me more about your son?’

It was a question I had asked when we first met, and she had stormed off into the bathroom, returning with puffy eyes. This time she shook her head mysteriously. ‘When you love someone, you must let them go. If they’re meant for you, they will return. Like you did, Stanley.’ As if reconsidering, she added, ‘If not, you might just risk seeking them out.’

When she started back up the track, she suddenly looked so forlorn. A hunched figure submerged in a navy-blue duffel coat, hood up, hands in pockets, dragging her trainers in slush. I wanted to run after her to ask what had gone wrong with Terry. As if sensing my intent, she spun around, threw off her hood, vigorously shook out her Medusa plaits and, squinting in the surprisingly fierce sun, called out, ‘If not, make effigy of said person and go to the witch doctor.’

What a crazy woman she was.

‘Now let’s get out of here, Stanley. Mountains are a reminder of how insignificant we are in the order of things.’

‘There’s something so spiritual about them,’ I declared enthusiastically as I joined her on the track, feeling I had to defend them. ‘They were here before we came and they’ll be here after we’ve gone.’