Roo's return

I’d been woken the first time by the leaping around of the dog like an Irish dancer burling to the relentless tattoo of the window cleaner knocking at the front door. The second time by snuffing a fat brown moth up my right nostril. And now by the demented cricket-like metallic chirping from Roo’s alarm clock.

The dog went through his repertoire of morning stretches as Roo herself appeared at my bedroom door, hair tousled and eyes small and sleep-full. I put my arms around her, both of us still soft and warm from our beds and silently aware that this would be her last time waking up at home for several months. Last night, we’d celebrated her 20th birthday a few days in advance of the event with a wonderful evening of food and conversation at my sister’s. Broccoli and cauliflower cheese, meltingly rich and deliciously savoury and accompanied by golden crispy roast new potatoes, all made with great skill by my sister’s husband and followed by a tray of fresh cream cakes.

We’d brought home three cream cakes left over from the feast and ate them now standing in the kitchen in our pyjamas as the dog tucked into his own - admittedly less exotic - breakfast. Roo scuttled back upstairs to dress and finish packing while I faffed around, filling the sink with too much hot water until the bubbles frothed right over the top and threatened to engulf half the room. Luckily I was rescued from the actual doing of the washing up at Roo’s request for me to go with her to the computer shop in the High Street to buy some essential piece of shiny technology. Back home once more and she somehow squeezed the new kit into her suitcase along with three wedges of cheese from the fridge (Red Leicester, Cheshire and Feta) and several de-packaged Easter eggs.

Too too soon it was time for the two of us to make our way to the station. It’s a walk of only a few minutes from our little house, skirting along the bottom of the ancient public green known as Beachfields Park that gives a home to trees and birds and red-cheeked children all year round and to the dazzling travelling funfair in August and November. Roo’s not travelling light back to university this time following our shopping trips and wants to practice wheeling both cases by herself. The suitcases trundle obediently along behind her, full of clothes and books and shoes, her new computer gadgets and several pounds of dairy goods.

And then we’re at the station itself, full of people wrapped up against the brisk wind that chills in spite of the pin sharp sunshine. We huddle close together on the platform and I know she’s nervous about the journey ahead as she fiddles with her bag straps and pulls her hands in and out of her pockets. The train arrives in slow motion and hisses and sighs as the doors open to disgorge a hundred passengers in hastily retrieved winter coats and scarves. I board with her for a moment, lifting one of the cases as she stows the other, and then step back out of the door and onto the platform.

We stand like that for a few minutes, her on the inside, me inches away on the windy concourse, saying our goodbyes. The train starts to rev and rumble, the huge engine and the hydraulic doors powering up in anticipation of departure and we embrace each other for the last time. And then the doors slide shut and I watch Roo mouthing goodbye through the window as she takes her seat and the train hauls away. I start to walk, trot, run beside the moving train, waving and calling out until its speed outpaces me and I’m left alone on the platform. Hot pricks of tears jab my eyes and I turn to make my way home from the now deserted station.

The dog’s waiting for me curled up behind the door when I let myself in.