I opened my eyes and once more looked at the objects in the room. Finally I rose and put on my dressing gown. I made my way to the bathroom, taking care not to arouse Niki, asleep in the spare room next to mine. When I came out of the bathroom, I remained standing on the landing for some time. Beyond the staircase, at the far end of the hallway, I could see the door of Keiko?s room. The door, as usual, was shut. I went on staring at it, then moved a few steps forward. Eventually, I found myself standing before it. Once, as I stood there, I thought I heard a small sound, some movement from within. I listened for a while but the sound did not come again. I reached forward and opened the door.
Keikos room looked stark in the greyish light; a bed covered with a single sheet, her white dressing table, and on the floor, several cardboard boxes containing those of her belongings she had not taken with her to. Manchester. I stepped further into the room. The curtains had been left open and I could see the orchard below. The sky looked pale and white; it did not appear to be raining. Beneath the window, down on the grass, two birds were pecking at some fallen apples. I started to feel the cold then and returned to my mom.
?A friend of mine?s writing a poem about you,? said Niki.
We were eating breakfast in the kitchen.
?About me? Why on earth is she doing that??
?I was telling her about you and she decided she?d write a poem. She?s a brilliant poet.?
?A poem about me? How absurd. What is there to write about? She doesn?t even know me.?
?I just said, Mother. I told her about you. It?s amazing how well she understands people. She?s been through
quite a bit herself, you see.?
?I see. And how old is this Mend of yours??
?Mother, you?re always so obsessed about how old people are. It doesn?t matter how old someone is, it?s what they?ve experienced that counts. People can get to be a hundred and not experience a thing.?
?I suppose so.? I gave a laugh and glanced towards the windows. Outside, it had started to drizzle.
?I was telling her about you,? Niki said. ?About you and Dad and how you left Japan. She was really impressed. She appreciates what it must have been like, how it wasn?t quite as easy as it sounds.
For a moment, I went on gazing at the windows. Then I said quickly: ?I?m sure your friend will write a marvellous poem.? I took an apple from the fruit basket and Niki watched as I began to peel it with my knife.
?So many women?, he said, ?get stuck with kids and lousy husbands and they?re just miserable. But they can?t pluck up the courage to do a thing about it. They?ll just go on like that for the rest of their lives
?1 see. So you?re saying they should desert their children, are you, Niki??
You know what I mean. It?s pathetic when people just waste away their lives.?
I did not speak, although my daughter paused as if expecting me to do so.
?It couldn?t have been easy, what you did, Mother. You ought to be proud of what you did with your life.? I continued to peel the apple. When 1 had finished, I dried my fingers on the napkin.
?My friends all think so too,? said Niki. ?The ones I?ve told anyway.?
?I?m very flattered. Please thank your marvellous friends.?
??I was just saying, that?s all.?
?Well you?ve made your point quite clearly now.? Perhaps I was unnecessarily curt with her that morning, but then it was presumptious of Niki to suppose I would need reassuring on such matters. Besides, she has little idea of what actually occurred during those last days in gki. One supposes she has built up some sort of picture from what her father has told her. Such a picture, inevitably, would have its inaccuracies. For, in truth, despite all the impressive articles he wrote about Japan, my husband never understood the ways of our culture, even less a man like Jim. I do not claim to recall Jiro with affection then he was never the oafish man my husband
considered him to be. Jim worked hard to do his part for the family and he expected me to do mine; in his own terms, he was a dutiful husband. And indeed, for the seven years he knew his daughter, he was a good father to her. Whatever else I convinced myself of during those final days, I never pretended Keiko would not miss him.
But such things are long in the past now and I have no wish to ponder them yet again. My motives for leaving Japan were justifiable, and I know I always: kept Keiko?s interests very much at heart. There is nothing to be gained in going over such matters again.
I had been pruning the pot plants along the window ledge for some time when I realized how quiet Niki had become. When I turned to her, she was standing in front of the fireplace, looking past me out into the garden. I turned back to the window, trying to follow her gaze; despite the mist on the pane, the garden was still clearly discernible. Niki, it seemed, was gazing over to a spot near the hedge, where the rain and wind had put into disarray the canes which supported the young tomato plants.
?I think the tomatoes are mined for this year,? I said. ?I?ve really rather neglected them.?
I was still looking at the canes when I heard the sound of a drawer being pulled open, and when I turned again, Niki was continuing with her search. She had decided after breakfast to read through all her father?s newspaper articles, and had spent much of the morning going through all the drawers and bookshelves in the house.
For some minutes, I continued working on my pot plants; there were a large number of them, cluttering the window ledge. Behind me, I could hear Niki going through the drawers. Then she became quiet again, and when I turned to her, she was once more gazing past me, out into the garden.
?I think I?ll go and do the goldfish now,? she said.
?The goldfish??
Without replying, Niki left the room, and a moment later I saw her go striding across the lawn. I wiped away a little mist from the pane and watched her. Niki walked to the far end of the garden, to the fish-pond amidst the rockery. She poured in the feed, and for several seconds remained standing there, gazing into the pond. I could see her figure in profile; she looked very thin, and despite her fashionable clothes there was still something unmistakably childlike about her. I watched the wind disturb her hair and wondered why she had gone outside
