AND THEN, as I toyed with my glass of wine and stood alone in a corner of the patio, Eric came out. Jacqueline, he said, I was looking for you. I was telling André to look after you in my absence, I told him you drink tea without milk, we sit on high stools, at three o’clock on Wednesday afternoons . . . He was only half joking. I smiled, ruefully.

And I want you to meet my parents, he said.

My friend Jacqueline, Eric said. His parents were so proud of him, winning a scholarship to study overseas. Eric, I said, you didn’t tell me a scholarship! I knew he’d got into his course, a competitive course, but he had been too modest to mention the scholarship. Or perhaps Eric understood my own stasis with my work — he did — and didn’t want to make me feel worse. Eric, whose career was on its way.

And then, at the end of the evening, Howard and I said goodbye to Eric. I hugged him; I felt close to tears. Come back, I said. Come back when you’re done. Oh I will, he said. I want to see your painting finished.

We drove home, a quiet drive through the streets. André knows quite a bit about some of the companies I work with, Howard said, but I wasn’t paying attention, I remember looking out into the dark trees.

I WENT TO SEE JOSEPH. I had bought some peaches at the Greek grocer, they were cling peaches, like the ones in my parents’ garden in Villiers. Not as good, as fresh as the ones from Villiers, or perhaps I imagined that. But I had seen them and brought a box home, Josias carrying it in from the car. Like grandma’s, Helena said happily, she bit into one and the juice spilled down her shirt, we all ate them greedily. I, even I. Their colour, their dusky orange colour. The Free State sun, they must have come from there. I imagined, again: the orchard, the trees behind the washing line, the rounding, ripening fruit, laden.

I’ve seen all kinds of peaches here, but not that kind. Or perhaps I’ve seen them, but decided they weren’t the same, they wouldn’t taste the same, I wouldn’t bother buying them. And I don’t like peaches any more.

But the cling peaches we had then were in their cardboard box in the pantry, the children would take one when they wanted. Wash them, I’d say. I’m sure they didn’t wash them. And Emily complained about peach juice on the children’s shirts: she leaning over the suds and washing board, washing, washing their shirts.

I’d take some peaches to Joseph.

Where did I get this idea? I could easily have said, Emily, take Joseph peaches when you take him his food, and Emily would have done that.

But I didn’t say that, I didn’t do that.

And the next afternoon I stood on a chair and reached into a tall cupboard in the kitchen, and took out a bowl, an ordinary wooden fruit bowl. We had plenty of bowls. I don’t know why I remembered the wooden one, that was the one I wanted. And I filled it with peaches.