Adam was touchingly worried, but soon set about preparing an excellent meal from the somewhat squashed and wilted produce in Mum’s old nylon shopping bag. As he worked, chopping and cooking things by hand in the way he prefers and with all the machines put away or ignored, I showed him some of Mum’s pictures of India on the screen above the counter, and told him about Gujarat One and Two, and that ridiculous violin. I even mentioned my lost child. Yes, the pain’s still there, but I realised as he served out the meal that it’s hurt me more in all these years I’ve kept it hidden. There’s no doubting, as well, that Adam’s becoming part of the process of my remembering. He listened as we ate, and the food, even if I can’t now quite remember what it was, was dreamily delicious. If there’s a question of any sort—the plain, simple ones of when and where and how—he simply asks. He accepts the litter of my life so readily. Perhaps he hopes he will even find something there of his own.Despite my long day and the hard climb back up from Fowey, I felt surprisingly sprightly after we’d finished eating.
