Six
My mother lived in the same street she had lived in for the last twentyyears, a street of drab houses all highly respectable¹ and devoid² of any kindof beauty or interest. The front doorstep was nicely whitened and itlooked just the same as usual. It was No. 46. I pressed the front doorbell.
My mother opened the door and stood there looking at me. She looked justthe same as usual, too. Tall and angular, grey hair parted in the middle,mouth like a rattrap, and eyes that were eternally³ suspicious⁴. She lookedhard as nails. But where I was concerned there was a core of softnesssomewhere in her. She never showed it, not if she could help it, but I’dfound out that it was there. She’d never stopped for a moment wanting meto be different but her wishes were never going to come true. There was aperpetual state of stalemate between us.
“Oh,” she said, “so it’s you.”
“Yes,” I said, “it’s me.”
She drew back a little to let me pass and I came into the house and wenton past the sitting room door and into the kitchen. She followed me andstood looking at me.
“It’s been quite a long time,” she said. “What have you been doing?”
I shrugged⁵ my shoulders.
“This and that,” I said.
“Ah,” said my mother, “as usual, eh?”
“As usual,” I agreed.
“How many jobs have you had since I saw you last?”
I thought a minute. “Five,” I said.
“I wish you’d grow up.”
“I’m fully⁶ adult,” I said. “I have chosen my way of life. How have thingsbeen with you?” I added.
“Also as usual,” said my mother.
“Quite well and all that?”
“I’ve no time to waste being ill,” said my mother. Then she said abruptly,“What have you come for?”
“Should I have come for anything in particular?”
“You usually do.”
“I don’t see why you should

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