Little Face

SOPHIE HANNAH

For my grandmother, Beryl, with love

Friday, September 26, 2003

I AM OUTSIDE. Not far from the front door, not yet, but I am out and
I am alone. When I woke up this morning, I didn't think today would
be the day. It didn't feel right, or rather, I didn't. Vivienne's phone call
persuaded me. `Believe me, you'll never be ready,' she said. `You have
to take the plunge.' And she's right, I do. I have to do this.

I walk across the cobbled yard and down the mud and gravel path, carrying only my handbag. I feel light and strange. The trees look as if they
are knitted from bright wools: reds and browns and the occasional
green. The sky is the colour of wet slate. This is not the same ordinary
world that I used to walk around in. Everything is more vivid, as if the
physical backdrop I once took for granted is clamouring for my attention.

My car is parked at the far end of the path, in front of the gate that
separates The Elms from the main road. I am not supposed to drive.
`Nonsense.' Vivienne dismissed this piece of medical advice with a loud
tut. `It's not far. If you followed all the silly rules these days, you'd be
terrified to do anything!'

I do feel ready to drive, though only just. I have recovered reasonably well from the operation. This could be thanks to the hypericum
that I prescribed for myself, or maybe it's mind over matter: I need to
be strong, therefore I am.

I turn the key in the ignition and press my right foot down hard on
the gas pedal. The car splutters awake. I turn on to the road and watch my speed rise steadily. `Nought to sixty in half an hour,' my dad used
to joke, when the Volvo was still his and Mum's. I will drive this car
until it falls to pieces. It reminds me of my parents in a way that nothing else ever could. I feel as if it is an old, loyal member of my family,
who remembers Mum and Dad as lovingly as I do.

I wind down the window, inhale some of the fresh air that hits me
in the face, and think that it will take many more horror stories of gridlock before people stop associating cars with freedom. As I hurtle along
the almost empty road past fields and farms, I feel more powerful than
I am. It is a welcome illusion.

I do not allow myself to think of Florence, of the growing distance
between us.

After four miles or so of open countryside, the road on which I am
driving becomes the main street of Spilling, the nearest small town.
There is a market in the middle and long rows of squat Elizabethan
buildings with pastel-coloured fronts on either side. Some of these are
shops. Others, I imagine, are the homes of old, rich snobs, bi-focalled
bores who witter on endlessly about Spilling's historical heritage. This
is probably unfair of me. Vivienne very definitely does not live in
Spilling, even though it is her nearest town. When asked where she
lives, she says simply `The Elms', as if her house is a well-known
municipality.

Waiting at lights, I rummage in my bag for the directions she gave
me. Left at the mini-roundabout, then first right, and look out for the
sign. I see it eventually: 'Waterfront'-thick, white, italic letters on a
navy blue background. I turn into the drive, follow it round the square
domed building and park in the large car park at the back.