Had she been more self-disciplined, altogether more Zen, she might have understood that age was an arbitrary marker, that growing old hardly mattered, because one could die any day. Would she not have apprehended the absurdity of human time? What about durée, she tried to remember, what about inner time? She could only perceive this relentless linear motion, this surging wave that was carrying her ever onwards. She should become more magnanimous, she thought. It was impractical to think so keenly about herself. Her hands were sweating, and there was a strong smell of coffee around her. It made her think about buying a cup, but she stayed in her seat, holding onto the table. For ten years, she had a simple means of self-definition. She was a journalist. It lent a confident ring to her voice. ‘Rosa Lane, calling from the Daily Rag, could you give me a few moments of your time.’ Through the years, Rosa’s voice had dropped, becoming more deep and jovial, trustworthy and efficient. ‘Hi, I’m Rosa, this is my partner, Liam. Yes, I’m a journalist. Liam is a political lobbyist.’ Subtext: We’re a pretty savvy couple, and you’d better know it. If something failed, if something went briefly awry, they could bask in the regard of the other — until the last stages at least, when there was no basking and mutual regard had been extinguished. Prior to that, she had delivered her lines well, with assurance, self-importance coursing from her larynx. ‘Hi, Rosa Lane here, I’m a veritable goddess of the media. Hey, listen to me! And I have a fine relationship as well, no doubt I’m on the way to something called a happy life.’ I hardly thought about this stuff at all, she thought. It was true she was sounding more hesitant. She had become afraid of striking up casual conversation with her neighbours. What do you do? they might say. Well, that was a question! What did you say? I do nothing, or nothing worth revealing anyway. I bow before the unrevealed secrets of TEMP. I am, professionally speaking, a despairing toad. Yet there are many things I intend to do! Even today, I fully intend to find a place to stay. Then I will phone Liam and ask about the furniture. I will call the bank and beg them for an extension — that’s Mr Sharkbreath, you see, he’s been quite cruel recently and I’m not very pleased with him. I assure you, it’s quite terrible what he did. He loaned me a load of money, and then he asked for it back, the callous varmint. I fully intend, after dealing with Sharkbreath, telling him exactly what I think, to read the comedies of Shakespeare, distinguish the various philosophies of the way, read History of Western Philosophy, Proust, Cervantes, Racine, the Ancient philosophers and the works of the major religions and a few more peripheral and the rest, find the TEMP — my own personal TEMP, you’ll have to find yours yourself — whatever that is, I don’t suppose you know either.
So she kept her head down.
Outside the sun was fading. The conductor appeared, a large gruff man, and she handed over her ticket. She saw people cycling along a path set back from the train tracks, a family out for an evening ride. It was cold and the children were wearing hats and scarves, smiling brightly. The whole family was smiling, frozen in happiness. She thought of a song; she was trying to remember the words, some eternal pop: Video killed the radio star … In my mind and in my car … Something she remembered singing when she was a child, picked up from her parents’ radio. That betrayed them — in those days, her parents were young and they even listened to the charts. The song struck her as funny and she longed to mouth the words. She noticed her hands were still sweating; they had created a sticky film on the table. Anyway the table was covered with empty crisp packets, grains of salt, an apple core, a few plastic cups full of cold dregs. The carriage had been converted, over a few hours, into a place of dust and debris. But she liked the refractions of light, the elegiac end of the day. She saw sheep grazing in fields, and a motorway receding out of view. There were deep red ferns on the hills, and the dwindling sun had stained the sky. When she arrived she would send her father a postcard. Loving, low-key. Daddy, gone to the Lakes. Remember, we went there all the time when I was child. Of course you remember. The stone cottage with the thatched roof and the wheelbarrow and the water barrel. At dusk bats flew from the rafters, zig-zagging across the garden. Thanks for taking me swimming in the lake in the mornings. I never appreciated it at the time, but there you were, on holiday, a couple of weeks off work, dragging your middleaged bones out of bed at dawn to take your small daughter to swim. Love Rosa.
Then she saw a series of hills emerging to the west, deep curves of rock and moss. She saw a cold pink band on the horizon. The train was nearly at Lancaster. There were steep slopes and small grey cottages scattered across them. A road winding through the fields. Tribes of sheep and cows, standing in the sketchy grass. She settled against the window, staring at the broad shanks of the hills. Now she slapped her pen down and thought of the view and the sky and the wandering flecks of cloud and the low light of the evening. The country was shadowed in dusk.
At a small country station she stepped down from the train. The air was clear and she could see the shadows of hills, silhouetted against the lights of distant towns. She found a taxi which drove her to Ulpha, through the rugged valleys of the southern Lake District. The roads wound over the backs of the hills, and the traffic streamed past on the other side. In the last light she saw a lake glittering between the mountains. That must be Coniston, she thought, as the road twisted up the gradient. There was a grey ferry moving slowly across the water. The car rounded the corners, picking up speed, and at the edges of the roads were dry stone walls, fields stretching beyond them. A few weeks ago, the driver had said, the fields had been covered with frost, but recently there had been a thaw. Rosa saw a quiet row of houses by the road, and in the distance she saw lights on blackening water.
The driver seemed like a friendly man, though after a few rounds of quick fire question and answer they fell into silence. In the seeping darkness the trees on the slopes were purple, their branches bare. And then there were rows of evergreens, leaves fluttering in the wind. She wound down the window though the air was cold, because she wanted to look at the trees. They drove through moorland, moss ground covered with dark hillocks. There were sheep lying on the rocks. Now the car went over a cattle grid and started to move slowly up a slope. There was a large slate building to the left, set back from the road. Ulpha was barely a village at all, a few houses with smoke pouring from their chimneys and a church. It seemed deserted when Rosa arrived; everything was so quiet. There was a light drizzle falling.
As she left the taxi, she wasn’t angry with anyone. She walked to a drive which looked promising, and as if it led to Will and Judy’s house. The ground was wet; mud coated her shoes as she walked. At the end of the drive she stood for a moment, breathing the cold air and listening to the sound of the River Duddon flowing swiftly. Her family had never stayed in this part of the Lakes. But her grandparents had lived nearby, and the air was thick with memories, as she glanced over at a cluster of slate cottages, set against russet fells. Already she was quite cold. Still she lingered in the evening air, puffing on her hands. On the muddy drive, the trees formed a canopy above her. The sky between the trees was serene, dotted with stars. She saw a bank of cloud hanging over the valley. She could hear a Land Rover in the distance, moving slowly over the cattle grid. Its lights swung around a corner, shining through a hedge. Then the sound of the engine receded.