We met up with Tess in the Arrivals Hall of Terminal 3, Heathrow, early this morning - our I phones woke us with their relentless cooing alarms - outside my parents' sparkling house it was dark and raw - householders dreamed under narrow roofs -
It was raining when we drove up the A3 - white van after white van swept past the red Peugeot - spray spattered the windscreen - I hunched forward, grasping the wheel, like a small gargoyle in a tweed jacket - for a while, I felt I was almost driving blind - perhaps some sorcerer was invoking a spell, stirring the supple spirits of the air - I was sure that I could glimpse weasel shaped forms, outlined in headlight rays -
Tess was returning to England after five weeks in America - she had crossed that magnificent wounded empire from coast to coast - she'd sent us WhatsApp pics of iconic wonders -
There she was - on the floor of the Grand Canyon, the rakish helicopter behind her - standing before a microphone in Sun Studios - watching hot air balloons soar into the sky over New Mexico - driving through Monument Valley - holding a baby alligator in a fanboat - hunting ghosts in Savannah - attending a Gospel service in Harlem - awed by Babylonian towers -
We'd seen Tess off, an age before, so it seemed - Sophie had hugged her - now here she was returning, Tessa, full of glorious adventure -
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