She is not sure how cold it will be. She is not sure if she should bring both a winter coat and her heavy cardigan that buttons up to the neck. The taxi has been called for the morning. There is nothing left to do but sleep and rise and make her way to the station. Harriet stands by the front window, looking down into the garden. The moon has turned the path into a small silver river, slipping through the gate. She follows it with her gaze and suddenly remembers the young woman she met on the morning Owen left for France. How the woman had stood by the gate and waved up to Harriet. How she had given her the sketch of the cathedral. How she had promised to come and see her the next day, and had then disappeared. Harriet turns abruptly from the window. She doesn’t want to think of that woman, not now. She’s just one more person who hasn’t kept her promise; just one more person who hasn’t returned to Harriet. The bus judders over the uneven ground. Harriet is thrown about in her seat, has to hold on to the seat in front of her in order to keep her balance, to keep herself upright.
