We spent five days walking with Refugee Tales. It was a rich experience, with the underlying shapes of pilgrimage, of political protest march, of migration and the search for refuge – of the human condition which is forever transient. Here is no continuing city. The days were full of blazing sunshine, the company of over a hundred strangers, and the possibility of easeful interaction which walking offers.

Amongst them was Helga, with whom I had an extended and thoughtful conversation about living in urban and rural settings, neighbourhoods and neighbourliness, and the choice – perhaps necessity – of redefining our lives as one stage comes to a close. At some point the group paused for a much-needed water break due to the heat and I took an apple from my bag. 

Day by day I grow more and more into my mother, for whom this fruit became the perfect portable snack. The sound of my teeth biting into a firm apple recalls her to me at, perhaps, her most content: sitting in the foyer of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre during the interval (for reasons of economy, we would stand at the back to watch some performances, so a seat at the break was a welcome comfort); mid-way through the evening, eating her apple, utterly fulfilled. Later in her life, as Alzheimer’s took hold, I was reduced to hiding bags of fruit: unable to retain the knowledge that she had finished one just a few minutes before, her appetite would re-awake, her hand would reach out. Dementia rendered her insatiable and I could not buy enough for her to leave any in the bowl. I did not begrudge her the pleasure, but there were five of us in the house and I was trying to provide fruit for us all. And of course she was right, a good eating apple is delicious and incredibly easy to carry around, and I am developing the habit.

Helga’s eyes rested on my apple as I took a bite. She was, at that moment, Eve:  the apple was the most gorgeous thing she could imagine. Her mouth watered. Her eyes glowed. I had a second apple in my bag, for the afternoon as I thought. But clearly, it was meant for Helga. She made one civil attempt at refusal, and then took it. And bit. I imagined the sweet juice bursting into her mouth, the way it had done for me and the cool crispness of the flesh. It was exactly what she wanted. The moment gave me delight. The apple, like Shakespeare’s mercy, was twice blessed – it blessed she who gave and she who received. On a hot sunny morning, somewhere near Stoke Newington, it created perfect pleasure. 

Some of the walkers, including Helga, were camping out, camping in rather – in church halls on the route. We, however, returned home each night to our house in East London. So it was easy for me to replenish my store of fruit and, on each of the remaining days, I took Helga an apple. We did not happen to walk together again, nor did we seek to;  mid-morning, I scanned the group when we paused for a break, caught her eye and delivered her apple. 

Often, when I think about relationships and interactions, I think in terms of commitment, obligation, power dynamics and responsibility. I want to write “I cannot say” but of course I am trying exactly to say how the tiny incident of the apples thrilled me.   Its smallness is part of its – to me – perfection, for it was too insignificant to create any burden of reciprocity or proportionality. The apple was a gift, pure and simple.

When my children were young, I liked the fact that they lived in a world where Father Christmas brought them toys. Pleasure and plenitude without obligation. I like the fact that Helga lives in a world where, on a hot sunny walk, an apple might be given. I like living in a world where one person might create that for another. And only now, in writing, have I wondered about the comfort it gave me to offer an apple to someone and for that to have been just what she wanted and also enough, sufficient unto the day. As it was for my mother when she was well, and as it ceased to be when she was ill, and so, no matter what I did, I was no longer able to satisfy her.

After five days of walking, the group dissolved and we parted. I wondered about seeking Helga to say goodbye, but didn’t. I preferred, and hope she preferred, to leave our relationship suspended, transient, one good conversation and the provision of apples.