Paul Simon's classic song Graceland drifts through the car radio, and fills my head with her image. It's as if she's sitting next to me, her bare feet on the bash board singing out-of-tune with the rhythmic beat of the uneven tarmac. For a woman in her mid-sixties my mother knew a good song when she heard one, and this is one of her favourites. Pushing the volume button and I join her in an imaginary duet: Memphis - Tennessee, I'm going to Graceland. There's an overwhelming sense of deja-vu as I turn off the 40 from Nashville and head towards Lamar. A journey I've done so many times before. The chance realisation of being just a few miles from the Elvis mansion, whilst listening to Paul Simon's tribute isn't wasted on me. It's just another uncanny coincidence that seems to be happening a lot since she passed away.

My heart lifts as I pull up outside her old home. An old wooden farmhouse set in two acres of rolling fields. A place where I'd spent most of my school vacations, and where in later life she'd taught me how to be happy again.

The killer sun cascades through the windows as I settle myself into her favourite chair. The humidity assaulting any remaining energy I have left after an eight hour flight, and a three hour drive. I hungrily unwrap the Cheese sandwich that I'd bought at Ricardo's, my mum's favourite deli. I like Ricardo, he's a decent man. He's been my mum's landlord for twenty five years. Generations of his family before him have owned the farmhouse going back over 100 years. He served me himself whilst offering his condolences, and told me everyone in the town liked her. I'd known his two sons from when they were first born, mum and I went to their christenings and now they were young men. They came out to shake my hand, which was kind of them.

I have always known my mum preferred male company, and men seemed to like her too - she never really got on well with women for some reason. She'd say: 'You can tell a man to fuck off and he'd either laugh or leave. If you tell a woman to fuck off, she'd be more angry about the fact that you'd sworn at her.' She always made me laugh with her silly psychology.

I open the first bottle of my six pack and take a long pull, happy to be here with my thoughts. Past memories continually chase me around this house. Like the pigeons in Trafalgar Square they were everywhere. If I fed them, they'd clamber all over me, flap about and peck at my thoughts, and if I kick out at them, they'd reappear under my feet trying to trip me up. My parents separated when I was ten. My mum confessing to a lover and a drink problem. Soon after that she headed south to Memphis, leaving me and dad in the Capital city. My father, all indignant and pious fought her in the court and won. Although a couple of years later I'm sure he regretted his victory. I was the reward and not a particularly good one. I turned into the epitome of a rebellious teenager, and we fought bitterly at every opportunity and on every subject.

I suspected an out-of-kilter chromosome that I had inherited from my mum; authority often annoyed me back then. I hated my dad for being too strict, and my mum for leaving me with him. The truth was, I guess, I just hated 'everyone' at that age.

Dad passed away at forty-one, his judicious heart suddenly packing up whilst riding his bicycle to church. Neither exercise, nor god it seems could save him. I never rode a bike after that, too scared of history repeating itself I guess; he was a year younger than I am now when he died.

Sometime later I turned into him without realizing it. I got a degree in Modern History and like him I became a teacher. I constantly teased myself about the comparison, imagining myself to be boring and aloof like him. Although, like my mum, I seemed to have no shortage of friends. At the time of his death, I was bumming around Europe and had fallen in love with an English girl. I arrived back in Washington too late for his funeral, which I regretted enormously. Something I was determined I wouldn't repeat for my mum.

I had spent so many blissful times in this house, it was impossible not to be elated. Real and rare moments of happiness came flooding into my brain. Mum telling me fabulous stories of her time in Spain; her sparkling dark eyes bouncing from one memory to another in quick succession. Recounting her life with a mixture of genuine sorrow and booze driven excitement. I was never sure if her stories were true or not, but I loved them anyway.

Tales of her childhood in various homes in Andalusia; busking with her gypsy family, playing three-card-tricks, and cheating money from the outsiders who came to the fiesta. Her father the agitator, was pulled from a secret communist meeting by Franco's troops, and was never seen again. Then, leaving her home at the age of eighteen she made her way to Barcelona, dancing flamenco in bars and clubs. After a few years she met my father the American tourist, strong and reliable. To her he was the polar opposite to all of the unfaithful boyfriends she'd had before. She fell hopelessly in love with him, and emigrated to D.C.

I recall her black opal eyes, full of anger one minute and sadness the next. Her smooth olive skin iridescent in the lamplight as she tucked me into bed. She would rub her face against mine and say: 'You have the gypsy nose Pedro. You look like your Grandfather tall and handsome, all the women will love you.'

The Cuban heels of her dance shoes were like thunder on the kitchen floor. 'El Fuego is here', she'd shout in a drunken slur. Supple wrists and expressive fingers mixed with the sensual sway of her hips. I didn't know much about sexuality in my youth, but I sensed it all around her when she danced. She was the most beautiful person I had ever known, and as a young man she filled my scared and doubtful days with excitement and adventure.

There was always music in this house. Elvis. The Stones. The Doors and Joni would bounce off the walls and into my memory bank. Sometimes the wail of flamenco voices could be heard coming from scratched records, but mostly I remember the songs of Paul Simon. We'd share a glass or two of San Miguel and she'd have a whiskey chaser. 'Just two fingers Pedro' she'd call, as I poured it for her. 'And don't forget, no ice, I'm not fucking American.' She must have told me that a thousand times in my life. She never liked ice in her drink.

We'd sing along enthusiastically to Simon and Garfunkel's greatest hits, until she'd fall into a drunken sleep. She was a hippy, a punk, a rebel and a drunk, often angry, very unreliable, but always happy to see me, and I loved her with all my heart. I wiped away my tears and raised my bottle to the sky. "Cheers mum."

I was dragged from my perfect revelry by a gentle knock on the front door. "Hello?" A soft female voice called through the fly screen.

I don't want company today. I want to wallow in my grief, and for a second or two I think about not answering, but I know the intruder must have seen my car parked out front.

"Hello," I reply, "It's open."

I imagine if I just sit there without making any effort, she'd know I wasn't the welcoming kind. I hear the creak of the door and the slap of flip-flops as she walks into the lounge.

"Hi, sorry to disturb you. I'm Maria."

"Yes, of course you are." I say sarcastically, looking straight ahead without acknowledging her.

"What does that mean?" she replies abruptly.

I'd got to her, I could tell. Maybe she'd fuck off now and leave me alone? I turn towards her and set my face into a scowl, the pre-requisite of the seasoned teacher. The first thing I see is her long dark hair that's caught in a shard of evening sun, a golden spear lighting up the beautiful colours. Some vaguely remembered T.V. ad comes into my head. A gorgeous brunette with a sexy voice, bestowing a palette of colours that have ridiculous names like midnight lust and cobalt caress. I'm drunk on the lack of sleep and it's hard to focus my mind, but I find the answer I'm looking for. 'L'Oreal', that was it. 'Because she's worth it'. I laugh to myself and wipe my bloodshot eyes, trying to concentrate on the pretty woman in front of me.

I stand up and hold out my hand. "Hi, I'm Peter, sorry It's been a long day." A pretty lame excuse for my indifferent behaviour.

"Of course, I should have realised, you're Fran's son aren't you."

Her irresistible eyes conjure images from my crazy teenage trip around the Mediterranean. Hot sunny days, drinking cheap wine and lying between the legs of some brown skinned beauty.

It's as if my rudeness hasn't affected her at all. Ignoring my outstretched hand, she moves between my arms and gives me a hug. Her soft breath exciting the hairs on my neck. I want to return her affection, but somehow I feel foolish and shy. Her bare arms and legs are strangely disconcerting, reminding me of the female students who come to my lectures dressed in miniskirts and vest tops, enough flesh on show to satisfy a coroner. 'Whatever happened to jeans and a tee shirt.' I ask myself.

Twenty years ago I'd have been all over her, but now I can't even get my hug right. My hands move around uncontrollably, scared of what I might touch, so I reluctantly back away. "You have me at a loss I'm afraid, do you know my mother?"

"Oh yes, we've become great friends in the last year or two." Her dark eyes shine brightly, but there's a sadness behind them that's impossible to ignore.

My mother was always collecting young people - I put this one at twenty five tops. However, unlike most of my mother's young friends this was a woman, which to the best of my knowledge rarely happened. Normally they were guys, mostly drifters, bearded and always handsome. I imagine the implications were obvious to the gossip-mongers in town.

"Where's my manners," I say, pointing to the sofa. "Would you like a beer?"

"A beer would be lovely, thanks," she waves a hand in front of her face like a fan, to show how hot she feels. "Wow, San Miguel, that's perfect, your mum's favourite."

Her gorgeous smile catches me off guard, and my eyes follow her as she backs onto the sofa and pops the top of her beer like an expert. There's something about this girl that enthrals me, but I can't put my finger on it. Maybe it's the hair and the black eyes or could it be the Spanish accent? It's like my mum is sitting here with me, keeping me company.

"I'm sorry about your loss," she adds, her eyes locked onto the label of the bottle as if it holds some special significance. "She was a special lady your mum, are you here to arrange the funeral?"

A picture comes into my head of a young woman, dressed in a black cloak and holding a single white lily. She stands over a grave. She calls my name and hugs me. The cloak falls open and she's naked underneath except for a pair of black dancing shoes.

"Well, I've already arranged it as it happens, the wonders of the internet and all that. It's in three days time at the local crematorium. I was hoping to put an ad in the local paper for anyone who'd like to come along."

"Oh, that's clever of you, there'll be lots of people who'll want to attend, everybody liked your mum. Can I help you with anything?"

Like many young people I'd encountered in my life, they believed the internet was for the sole use of the under 30's. They always seem shocked when someone older could unravel its mystery. However, she is so charming that I instantly forgive her the implication.

"Um, thank you. Maybe?" I reply.

I had got used to doing everything for myself since my wife had left me eight years ago. I had become so independent that I nearly always rejected offers of help, in case people thought me weak or vulnerable. I'd heard the whispers: 'Poor Mr Bishop, all alone, nobody to look after him'. The women seemed to be worse, often asking: 'Are you okay, do you need some company after work?' I'd been tempted on many occasions to go to end of term drink, but I'd seen too many careers damaged by liaisons with students or fellow teachers. So I'd always make my excuses, and pretend I was busy.

"Actually, there is something you could help me with, it's the one thing I've been dreading."

"Of course, I'd like that. What is it?" Her eyes stare at me excitedly.

She's certainly beautiful, and I wonder why I'd never met her before on one of my visits. "Would you be able to help me bag up my mum's clothes tomorrow and maybe help box up some of her stuff?" I wasn't sure if there was some unwritten rule that meant only relatives could do this horrible task. I didn't care, I wanted to see her again. "I could pick you up if you like, do you live locally?"

"Oh yes, very local." There's a grin on her face, but I don't understand why.

I hadn't heard a car pull up, so I guess she'd walked here. I'm enjoying the banter between us, it's fun and a little playful too, like she's teasing me in some familiar way.

"Why did you come here by the way? Was there something you wanted?" I return her smile, and watch as she nervously picks at a loose thread on the hem of her skirt.

"Well, I saw the car in the drive and wondered if you was the realtor, I was being nosey really." Her eyes lock onto mine and seeing me looking at her busy fingers, crosses her legs and smooth's down her skirt. "I was wondering what the rent would be. Are you going to move in?"

She has that mischievous way my mum always used for getting her own way. It was plainly self-motivated, but beguiling all the same. I could tell she was lying. No right minded realtor would be driving a rented Ford that was well past its prime. Yet, I enjoyed the idea that she was being deceitful. It made her less precious and somehow more accessible, as if she may be open to temptation.

"No, I won't be renting it, I'll be returning to England in a week or two." I reply.

"Oh, that's a real shame."

She uncrossed her legs and pulls down the bottom of her tight fitted top, hiding her brown stomach. If she was being coy, which I doubted, she didn't mind highlighting the fact that she wasn't wearing a bra. Two hard pips push against the stretched cotton of her vest, and I quickly look away. Downing the last of my bottle of beer, hoping the distraction would take away the tingle in my balls.

"Your mum said you're a teacher. You don't look much like a teacher to me, way too handsome for job like that." Her cheeky grin, lets me know she'd caught me looking at her hard nipples.

'She's flirting with me. Isn't she? That's a compliment, right?' I think to myself.

I always do this, over think things with women. 'Just go with the flow' I tell myself. I suck in my belly, and imagine lifting her up and carrying her to bed. Then just as quickly feel stupid for even contemplating it.

"Another beer?" I say, hoping she hasn't seen my embarrassment.

"No, I better not, thank you. I'm not used to drinking. I might get a bit squiffy, then you'll have to carry me home." Had she read my mind?

She smiles sexily and adds, "I think I better go," and she rises slowly from the sofa, and makes her way towards the door. "Shall we meet tomorrow? I'm working in the morning, but I'm free in the afternoon."

I want her to stay, to talk about my mum, and maybe chat about other stuff too. "How about lunch, if you're not too busy?"

"That'll be lovely, shall we say about one?" She leans in and hugs me again. This time I hug her back, her face sits comfortably tucked in the crook of my neck. "It's been so good to meet you at last Pedro."

I walk her through the front door and I'm intrigued. Nobody calls me Pedro except my mum, have they been talking about me?

We hadn't noticed the darkness that had suddenly spread around the house. There's a green-blue haze to the threatening dark clouds, that look so low that I feel I can almost touch them. A flash of lightening cracks way beyond the fields, sparking off the ground and sending blue electric spits into the humid air. Then the heavens open and huge wet drops fall onto the hard and parched ground, then very quickly the drips became...