Mrs Bertrand

Mrs Bertrand still lives in the little bluestone house behind the village school, with geraniums at the windows and a garden gnome fishing in an empty stone basin. The gnome has lost his rod. He fishes with his fist closed, over nothing.

I ring the bell on Tuesday the fifth of May at two in the afternoon. I found her address in Jeanne's exercise book, and her number in the online directory, and I didn't call ahead. I didn't want to give her time to prepare anything, not an excuse, not a cake.

She opens the door. She's seventy-one, white hair cut in a bob, a lavender mohair cardigan and glasses hanging on a chain. She's smaller than I remember. Everyone is smaller than I remember. She looks at me through the glass of the door, and then she opens it and stays on the threshold with her hand on the handle.