She kept walking, soon reaching the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, hidden behind scaffolding. She passed several red phone boxes being used as background props for selfies. She stood on Westminster Bridge, looking across at the London Eye, slowly turning in the spring sunshine. There was a scattering of boats on the river, the water a dull blue-brown, as muddy as the Yarra in Melbourne.

At every step, she pictured her mother here. More than that. She imagined the two of them here together, retracing Jeannie’s steps. They’d talked about doing it. After Eliza finished uni, they’d decided. They’d both save up and do a big trip together. ‘Hang the expense,’ Jeannie had said.

Eliza took a seat on a bench in the park beyond the Houses of Parliament. She needed to be still. Close her eyes. Think of good memories to replace sudden sad ones. Today it was harder than usual.

She’d always hoped the day might come when she could think about her mother and feel a gentle warmth. Acceptance. It still hadn’t happened. Even now, thirteen years later, there were so many moments she wanted to share with her. Talk about with her. Not just landmark events like her graduation, or getting the job with Gillian. She kept longing for ordinary times. Normal times. She’d love to have invited her to dinner in her flat in Melbourne. Gone away for weekends with her. Had theatre outings. Seen films together. Spoiled her on Mother’s Day. Travelled with her.

She’d love to have been sitting here with Jeannie right now.

A young couple sat down beside her. Spanish or Italian, looking into the woman’s phone, at a map or at the selfies they’d taken that day. Eliza stood up and kept walking.

Ten minutes later, she was in front of the Tate gallery. It was smaller than she’d expected. A flight of stone steps, six tall columns, long banners announcing the current exhibition.

Jeannie had told her more than once about her first visit to the Tate. About a game she’d played there. She’d visited on a freezing winter’s day, she said. As she walked in, she’d given herself a million pounds to buy whatever painting she wanted. She saw the perfect one within minutes. But she didn’t want to make a snap decision. She kept exploring the gallery. Until she was drawn back to the first painting.

She told Eliza she had stood gazing at it for hours. That it made her heart glow. She went to the front desk, took out her cheque book and bought it. They took it off the wall, parcelled it up, and asked, ‘By air or sea, madam?’ And to that day, she told Eliza, she’d regretted her answer. By sea, she’d said. It was still sailing the seas somewhere. Thank God she’d bought a postcard of it too.