Liverpool from Dubai last night, desperate to be here days ago, but work had my passport while they were renewing my bloody visa. I mean, talk about timing.
‘You’re best hailing a black cab on the main road, if you’re in a hurry?’
Exiting the main entrance, I step out into Hope Street. Concrete slabs lie beneath my feet in the Georgian Quarter, home to a fusion of classic exteriors and modern interiors. A mother stops me, asks if I’ll take their photo. Her family position themselves on the steps of the French bistro next door, the graduate in the centre looking almost as pleased with himself as his parents do.
‘Of course,’ I say. ‘Now say fromage.’
The family crack up.
I can’t help but look down at the mother’s shoes, wonder if she’s bought them especially for today. My heart swells and a lump crams into my throat. I hold the phone steady and capture the moment. The whole family thank me for the photo.
‘All the best,’ I wish them.
I walk down Hope Street, towards the Anglican Cathedral. The sun is high, beating down upon my head and although I’m used to a hot climate now, it’s uncomfortable here, as if the air isn’t ever prepared for it. I stop to put my sunnies on, glad to have an excuse to hide behind the polarised lenses. The Anglican Cathedral grows larger with every step I take, a giant icon standing strong and sure of itself. Behind me, the Catholic Cathedral, its crown pinching the clear sky, shrinks, although the stained-glass panels dance in the sunlight. My ma always felt guilty for preferring the Anglican over the Catholic, by design only, of course. That’s Catholics through and through, though, isn’t it? Even the postcard, the one tucked inside my suit jacket pocket, is riddled with guilt. My ma feeling awful about enjoying herself so much in Florida whilst poor Ethel Barton was having (another) hip replacement.
‘It just doesn’t seem fair,’ my ma had written.
I approach the main road on a hill. Many families flood the cathedral’s entrance, a crossover of ceremonies. Everybody looks so happy. I want to tell them all to stop, just for a moment, to acknowledge that the world isn’t spinning the right way around today. But even if they did, and a magical minute’s silence ensued, it’s not going to take my pain away, is it?
A rush of panic seizes me as I hail a passing cab. It drives straight past. I hadn’t noticed the light was off, passengers already inside. This gives me a quick sense of relief, buying me a little more time before I’ve got to say goodbye. I drag my eyes away from the road and let them wander up to the top of the cathedral and down again.
And that’s when I see her.
Throwing her mortar board into the air and catching it.
I blink hard. Perhaps it’s not her. She can’t catch to save her life.
‘Zara?’
I remove my sunnies, but the sun is so bright, I’ve got to squint. It makes my eyes water, so I put them on again. Amidst the many graduates, all dressed identically, I find her again.
It is.
It’s her.
Zara.
She’s stood in the middle of an older couple, one arm around each, and smiling, whilst a younger girl – maybe seventeen or eighteen and bearing a striking, natural blonde resemblance to Zara – takes a photo. A small gang appears and jumps into the photo, all wearing the same gown and mortar board, and raucous laughter follows. Two of the gang pick Zara up, as light as she still is, and she sits upon their shoulders, posing for even more photos. The woman is embracing many of these graduates whilst the man shakes their hands. Zara’s doing some sort of dance with the younger girl. Some of her pals joining in.
Christ.
I wonder if she still lives in the flat above the chippy.
I recall the view from the front window; the flyover, a far cry from my current apartment overlooking the golf course, a myriad of modern architecture framing the green horizon. Only Zara could manage to find beauty in that flyover. The rattling of the lorries, the swish of the rain, the whistle of the wind. It helped her to zone into her work without ever feeling alone. Her words, not mine. I remember seeing an easel grace the corner beside the DVD shelf. String hung from wall to wall, her drawings attached with wooden clothes pegs like bunting floating above my leather