The buses are the same green, smoke hangs in the air like a cloud of its own, the train that takes me out to Bray chugs with the same old languor. I tell myself that I have changed and all else hasn't, but even that isn't true. The old self folds round me like a comforting cloak. I want to see him, the old devil, I realise. The eucalyptus trees bend on the Vico Road and their scent comes through the window with the odour of tomcats. The bowling green is sodden outside the station and the long walk up to the terraces chills to the bone. The gates are hanging open, there is green moss and the accretions of rust over the ironwork. I look up at the house and see new lace curtains at the windows and realise that it's true, she must be there. So I walk on past all the railings and knock on the door and she answers. Were you expecting me? I say, with as much quiet as I can muster. Yes, she tells me. Well, I say, here I am.
