7

Monday 9 June — Friday 4 July 1986

Exactly how it came about that Chaite was departing from WEL she

wasn’t sure. To say it was a combination of her handing in her notice and Colley asking her to leave was an overstatement. Perhaps it was by mutual agreement. In the nicest possible way. She had rung Colley on the morning he returned from paternity leave: ‘Can I come and see you, please?’

‘Will it do this at two-fifteen this afternoon?’

Chaite had been winding herself up for this: ‘You seek to intimidate me by the use of quarter hours? ... No, it wouldn’t’

Something in her voice made him agree: ‘Right, come now’

She went along to his office. He waved at her to sit down; in the few seconds between her ringing off and walking along the corridor he had taken another call. Typical! The call ended. Colley smiled charmingly:

‘Now, how can I help you?’

He was so formal.

‘I know you don’ t like talking about ... about us in working hours ...’

‘No; I’ve always thought it was better not ... is that what you want to talk about?’

‘Yes. I congratulated you on becoming a father. For the third time. Remember?’

‘Well?’

‘If I thought your marriage was old and tired it would be bad enough, but it isn’t. You’ve just become a father for the third time. Don’t you see?’

‘See what?’

He was deliberately obtuse; he didn’t want to see anything, yet Chaite appeared to be letting him off the hook — he ought to be grateful. Yet now that the moment had come he was less than receptive because he hadn’t taken the initiative. He ought to be asking her to leave ... but he would feel such a heel. Double heel: to Genista and to Chaite. Whatever he did would be wrong.

‘Colley. I’ve got to leave WEL’

‘Why?’

‘You’re not wrecking my marriage’

‘You mean to tell me you stay out like you do, and Genista doesn’t notice?’

‘All right ... [Colley wonders how he can save Chaite; retain her on his shelf] ... we can stop seeing each other ... so much ... but Genista doesn’t know about ... you’re doing a good job here, and I can see no reason at all why you should give it up’

‘There’s every reason ... believe me, Colley, I don’t want to go, but I’m absolutely sure I must. You’re making me feel ... well, sort of hemmed in. Claustrophobia. You’re so ... possessive. You ought to go home sometimes and possess Genista. I used to find it fun when we first met ... thrilling … [so she admits that?] ... but now I’ve met Genista ... [so that’s it] ... it makes me feel sort of ... vaguely ... queasy, even if she doesn’t know’

Colley can feel Chaite slipping from his grasp. He wants her, but he knows that what his friend Leslie said is true — Chaite is free and independent, and can’t magically transfer her qualities to him. ‘If you want to go on enjoying her, you must never let on that you want to keep her’ Leslie had said. Was it too late to dissuade her?

‘When do you want to go?’ Was that subtle?

‘I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve got a possible replacement on my books — she’s coming in on Wednesday ... [you seem to have it all worked out] ... fortnight’s overlap, I could leave on ... Independence Day’

‘You seem to have it all worked out. Suppose your ... replacement doesn’t fit? Or won’t come?’

‘She will. She came in and saw Ted last week ...’

‘WHAT?’

‘... it’s all fixed’

‘What can I say ...?’ Calm yourself.

‘Nothing ... it’s meant’

The next day, Chaite phoned Cepha: ‘Could I come and stay with you for a bit? I’ve got some holiday’

‘That would be smashing — the children keep asking when you’re going to come again’

‘You and Rupert could go away for a few days. I can look after them’

Cepha wondered — fleetingly, irrationally — if that would be safe:

‘Well ...’

‘It’s no imposition. After all, they’re all the family I’ve got, apart from my sisters’

‘Saturday week; I’ll leave in the morning, and be with you around lunch time’

Then Chaite rang directory enquiries: ‘... It’s a firm of house agents: Sellis & Toker’

There was a pause; then: ‘I’ve got a Sellis & Co, Auctioneers & Estate Agents, but no Toker’

Chaite’s heart leapt.

‘And the number?’

‘Is Rusham 29491’

‘Thank you very much’

She dialled Sellis & Co, mentally preparing a disguised voice:

‘Sellis & Co; can I help you?’

‘May I speak with Mr Toker?’ She wondered if her assumed American accent sounded as phoney down the line as it did to her.

‘I’m afraid Mr Toker has left the firm’

‘Oh, can I have you put me into touch with him?’

That sounded clumsy ... but perhaps they talked like that in … Bozeman, Montana.

‘I’m sorry, he’s before my time. I’m sure Mr Sellis will know ... Hello?’

Chaite didn’t hear her say ‘Hello?’ for she had caused the question by cutting off the call. She dialled the number again.

‘Sellis & Co; can I help you?’

Chaite assumed as lah-de-dah a voice as she could muster: ‘Is it possible to speak to Mr Sellis?’

‘Are you the American that rang just now? We got cut off’

‘American? Of course not. My name is Chaite; please tell Mr Sellis I would like to talk to him’

There were clicks.

‘Chaite — my dear — fancy hearing from you. How are you?’

‘I’m fine. As a matter of fact, I could be looking for a job in a few weeks’ time. In your area. I just thought ... perhaps ... you might ... know of something?’

‘Why don’t you come and see me? I had to let Toker go, I’m afraid. You were right about him ... though rather brutal’

‘I was? I was. Well — anyway, if he’s not there, I’ll not mind coming to see you. I’ll be with my sister at Shalthorpe on Saturday week. Then I’m going to visit Mercia — you remember?’

‘Yes, of course. At Little Bygrave. When are you coming up here?’

‘That’d be splendid. Come about ... let’s see ... come about quarter to one, and we’ll have lunch. I’ll look very forward to that. Goodbye, my dear’

‘Goodbye, Mr Sellis ... and thanks’

‘Don’t mention it. Goodbye’

‘Goodbye’

This could go on for ever; Chaite put the phone down, prepared to face Colley at any time.

Colley had gone home the previous evening in a turmoil of gratitude and despair. Should he mention Chaite’s departure to Genista? Suppose Chaite decided for some reason not to go? He decided to wait.

Little Nikki (as opposed to her aunt, Big Nikki) and Giles were playing in the garden; William was in his pram under the walnut tree. There was an appetising smell wafting through the open back door. He went in: ‘Hello — — Genista!’

‘Colley! You’re early!’

‘I know — isn’t it nice?’

‘It certainly is ... I’ll finish what I’m doing, and we can sit in the garden’

‘I’ll get some chairs’

‘And what would you like to drink?’

‘G&T’

Genista put her hand on his forehead: ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘Of course I am. Why not?’

Genista relaxed: ‘It’s good to see you, whatever it is’

She kissed him.

With no effort at all, Colley spent an evening of domestic bliss, helping to bathe Nikki, Giles and William, making William comfortable and tucking him up snugly, then looking at The Boy’s Wonder Book of Aeroplanes he’d had when he was their age (with his imitative scribbles still in it) with the others; then reading Mr Fork and Curly Fork for old times’ sake before taking them up to their beds and tucking them in.

‘Good night, Little Nikki’

‘Good night, Daddy. Daddy ... I like it when you come home and read to us’

‘Good night, Giles’

‘Good night, Daddy. Will you come home early tomorrow like this again?’

The corners of Colley’s eyes burned; he heard strains of heavenly choirs as a fairy swooped in through the window to wand tinkling, twinkling stars on to the children’s sleepy heads before swooping out into the night again.

‘Too much Walt Disney is bad for you’

‘What did you say, Daddy?’

‘Nothing. Go to sleep’

There being nothing on the telly, he and Genista went to bed early. And, it being a hot night, he and Genista went to bed naked.

* * * * * * *

‘Colley’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s never been as good as that before’

‘Do you think we’ll have a fourth?’

‘If it’s meant. Could be rather nice. William’ll be about a year old’

‘Could you manage four?’

‘I could cope with dozens’

‘If it goes on like this, you may have to’

‘Good night, Colley. And thank you. I love you’

‘I love you too. Night’

‘Mmmm’

So they had slept. For the first time for a long time, Colley didn’t wake early thinking of Chaite. To do so, he realised when she at last swam into his ken, was obscene. She swam away again.

He was married to Genista. He had behaved very badly. She was worth a hundred Chaites (if he were allowed to think of Chaite to compare her).

The week got round to Friday. Colley and Chaite hadn’t exactly avoided one another, but it so happened that their paths didn’t cross either. That gave the week-end to see whether new leaves stayed turned.

Chaite decided to go and see Mercia. She didn’t bother to check if Mercia would be there; she had a key to Mercia’s house, so it didn’t matter that much. It was a change she wanted primarily; Mercia would be an added delight.

Mercia was out. She opened the front door, tossed her overnight bag into the hall, re-emerged into the fine summer evening.

Into the pub to see who was there. A couple of couples she knew vaguely as friends of Mercia smiled and nodded, but were obviously interwrapt; the atmosphere within seemed oppressive compared with the exterior summer. She bought herself a pint of shandy and went to sit in the garden so that she could listen to the birds, breathe the tender air, and watch the sunset.

As she listened and watched, its timelessness overcame her. The sun shone on the bench she sat on, like a burnish’d throne; it was made of wood from trees which might have been planted in her great-great-grandfather’s time.

But the sound of the birds must have remained unchanged for thousands — tens of thousands? — of years. And the sunset? That must have happened countless millions of times, whether there was anyone there to see it or not. She sat and thought herself back through the centuries ... what could she see? The cars disappeared, the pub disappeared, the landscape became unfamiliar as she thought herself into a forest — changing from oak, beech and hornbeam to more primitive forms until she was surrounded by giant cycads and equisetales. The horizon assumed the guise of an artist’s impression of sunset on Mars.

‘What a privilege — to be present in the great Carboniferous forest’

‘I beg your pardon?’

It was a small man of indeterminate years wearing an obvious wig that looked as though a ginger cat had settled on his head; the effect was heightened by a nose and moustache which looked as though they came off with his spectacles. He was carrying a glass containing a clear liquid with ice floes and lemon; Chaite assumed it was gin, since he was also carrying a bottle of tonic. Unasked, he sat down.

‘Oh, I was just musing ... musing upon the king my brother’s wreck’

There was silence. He broke it: ‘You’re a bit poetical then? A bit of a poet ... ess, if I may be so forward’

Chaite was benign with the evening, but irritated with the intruder:

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck, And on the king my father’s death before him — The Waste Land’

‘Or The Tempest?’

‘Mr Eliot seemed to think so, but it’s a bit far fetched’

‘Do you understand it?’

Damn. That sounded patronising; she didn’t want that.

‘Does anyone understand it? Did you know that Eliot himself said:

I wasn’t even bothering whether I understood what I was saying? Isn’t it the case that you read it; you declaim it to yourself; it gives you a feeling that you understand something — whatever it is? And that sort of oneness is understanding’

Chaite relaxed slightly: ‘Oh, you mean it’s a bit like Why do you picture John of Gaunt as a somewhat emaciated Grandee??’

‘Yes. Exactly. No ... that’s humorous. The thing we’re talking about is words washing over you so that you feel refreshed —

Time present and time past

All time is unredeemable’

‘That sums up what I was thinking exactly’

Chaite hoped he wouldn’t ask her to elaborate.

‘How interesting. Can I get you a drink?’

Chaite didn’t want to be indebted to him, but she thought he owed her something for intruding: ‘Thank you. May I have a gin and tonic?’

‘Of course, my dear’

It sounded stilted and lecherous. Chaite recoiled. He went away, carrying the empties. She wondered if she could — should — slip away, but decided against it. After all, she had nothing else to do; conversation was now preferable to silence, and it was unlikely that anyone she could rustle up — even if she felt like making the effort — would provide better conversation than he. Anyway, she’d never get rid of him ... and he might live close by; then she’d never dare show her face again. But why should she write him off because of his unprepossessing appearance? She realised that she was all too prone to do this; pigeonhole people because of their appearance. Chaite thought he looked — and sounded — uneducated, so she felt uneasy that her constructs — that he must therefore be unintelligent — were apparently incorrect. Sometimes she hated herself: what would they talk about next?

He returned with a tray of drinks; he’d bought some crisps as well. He tipped tonics into the gins. He passed her a glass; raised his: ‘Cheers!’

It was a double gin — or was it a treble? Whatever it was, it gave Chaite a hefty kick in the throat. She felt tears in her eyes, but resolved not to show that she was discomfited:

‘Arrrgh ... delicious’ She coughed.

‘Would you like some crisps?’

‘Yes — thanks’

Without comment, he opened a packet and passed it to her; then:

‘Some poems aren’t obscure:

So that was why he’d changed position. The devil — how dare he suggest that they should get engaged — if it was his suggestion. Perhaps he was just näive. It needed pursuing: ‘You’re saying I’m the girl of your choice?’

‘Yes. I knew it the moment I saw you. And when you started quoting poetry ...’

Chaite; a sudden child; talking to a strange man: ‘I think I ought to be going now’

‘Please stay — you haven’t finished your drink. Anyway, I didn’t mean anything’

‘Then why did you say it?’

‘I ... I just wanted to talk. My wife’s just ...’

‘Your wife?’

‘My late wife ... please stay and talk a little’

‘All right, but my sister will be coming any minute — and then I’ll have to go’

Damn. Why hadn’t she said ‘my brother’? But then she’d have been tempted to say ‘my brother, who’s a policeman’ and then neither of them would have believed it. Liars ought to have good memories. Tell the truth, and you can’t be inconsistent. She hoped Mercia would come. With a man. As she took another sip of G&T she had a sudden, wild, melodramatic fear that he might have drugged it. He spoke: ‘What do you do? For a living, I mean’

‘Me? I’m a people person — I’m in personnel’

Tell him in bits — it’ll spin it out.

‘Locally?’

‘No ... across at Foxworth — a place called WEL — I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it ... [damn — patronising inflection — try again] ... I don’t suppose you’ve heard of it?’

You on the bench? Well I never. But to question it would seem rude ... as would this pause if it were to last any longer: ‘And what do you do ... apart from being on the bench?’

Chaite heard the incredulity in her voice as she said it. But the moment was shattered by the arrival of Mercia, with a man and a woman whom she did not know, the former carrying a tray of drinks.

Mercia rushed forward to embrace Chaite: ‘How wonderful to see you — are you staying?’

‘Yes — I’ve put my things in your hall — hope you don’t mind’

‘Not at all ... I see you’ve met Hugh’

‘Not formally’

‘Hugh’s Professor of English at the university up the road. I expect he’s been keeping you entertained’

With keen interest, Chaite observed her perception of Hugh flip: ‘Yes, he’s been telling me all about his trip up the Amazon to locate a Lost Tribe of Israel’

‘Oh, he’s always boring us with that ... [said the man] ... my name’s Guthrie, by the way — and this is Alice, Hugh’s wife’

Chaite couldn’t carry that one off. She shook hands with Alice, but looking at Hugh: ‘But I thought ...’

Alice broke in: ‘What else has he been telling you?’

Hugh interrupted: ‘Well, you weren’t exactly early, were you, my dear?’

‘Not the one about his late wife?’

Chaite nodded.

Hugh looked contrite: ‘Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever ... Let me get some more drinks ... my penitence’

He took orders, and departed. Chaite watched him go. The small man of indeterminate years with a ginger cat on his head had become a professor, a JP, and one of her sister’s circle. She amused herself by trying to see him as she had at first, without the multiple accreditations.

The gins and tonics wrought their metabolic havoc, the evening became jollier and jollier; they set to work to set the world to rights through a thickening haze; the table supported bottle after bottle of wine. Chaite enjoyed scampi in the basket without remembering it much. The coloured lights in the trees indicated that it was closing time. They all rose and tottered round to Mercia’s house for coffee and liqueurs.

company. And she noted with a pang that Mercia appeared to have taken Guthrie to her bed.

Some hours later, Chaite went downstairs and made a pot of tea; laid a tray; took it up to Mercia’s bedroom. The door was ajar; Chaite knocked with the corner of the tray.

‘Come on in’

Chaite pushed the door open. Guthrie appeared to have gone. The sight of Mercia lying in bed took her back to their childhood. Mercia saw Chaite standing with a tray bearing three cups, looking at the half-empty bed with the incredulity of a child watching a conjuror. Mercia laughed: ‘It’s quite safe — you can come in’

Chaite wondered at her little sister, going to bed with a man. It was not quite nice — like imagining one’s parents preparing for one’s arrival in nine months’ time.

She put down the tray and sat on the bed:

‘He’s gone!’

‘Yes, he’s on earlies — he’s a detective inspector’

Again, Chaite’s perception flipped. She’d had no idea ... a policeman after all ... and policemen didn’t spend the night with one’s sister:

‘He seemed to be knocking back the gins’

Mercia laughed again: ‘Lemonades, actually. The company can make you high’

Chaite ingested that one. Then: ‘Have you known him long?’

And so they fell to talking of Guthrie ... and Chaite, who needed to talk to someone so desperately, told Mercia more about Colley than she’d have believed possible — who he was, and how she’d met him, and what had (and hadn’t) happened, and: ‘I love him so very much — but I’d never dare tell him ... that’s why I’ve got to move on. I must be cruel only to be kind. You see?’

Mercia saw.

So passed Chaite’s week-end. She returned to Foxworth on Sunday evening, reassured that there was life beyond Colley.

On Sunday evening, he and Genista watched television — The Secret of Stonehenge. It touched a chord — a whole arpeggio — in Genista: ‘I thought that was fascinating’

‘I’m so glad — I did too, and I was terribly afraid you wouldn’t’

‘No, I love Stonehenge; it makes me feel ... at one with the past’

‘We must go and see it again — though I’m not sure if you can get near to it what with hippies and barbed wire’

‘I don’t think it’s like that all the time ...’ doubtful Genista.

‘Mind you ... [said Colley] ... I do get worried about it’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, whatever it was constructed for, I suppose we can take it that it’s some sort of celestial record?’

‘So?’

‘So, to set it up, you’d need to make observations over a span of time longer than a single life’

‘Unless you had someone who lived an abnormally long time’

‘Yes, but you wouldn’t know in advance that you were going to live an abnormally long time — anyway, the chances are that it would have to be calculated out over a long period’

‘How would you record your observations?’

‘That’s the point. If you’re advanced enough to be able to make and record your observations — to pass them on to your descendants — why do you need to build a great structure like Stonehenge?’

‘What else is there? Clay tablets?’

‘Wooden posts in the ground?’

‘Perhaps that explains the remains of the wooden posts’

‘It could indeed. But why then go to all the trouble of carting those socking great monoliths all that way; a wooden structure would — could — be just as elegant. And more accurate, if you’re worried about sky sightings. And if it’d last a few hundred years, that’d be enough. A post of yew will outlast a post of iron’

‘Yes, but Stonehenge is more impressive than Woodhenge. And Woodhenge has long since gone’

‘But if Stonehenge weren’t durable, it wouldn’t be there, and we wouldn’t be worrying about it now — if you see what I mean’

‘Perhaps durability is the key. If it was built for some purpose of worship it would need to be impressive. Not just because the priests need to impress the ordinary people, but because the effort propitiates the gods’

‘What else is it for? If you can predict what’s going to happen — albeit in the sky — you’ve got power. That’s what priesthood is all about — power. So they needed an impressive structure to create an awesome atmosphere. It’s the same today — throughout recorded history. An awesome building must be quite a large part of the paraphernalia of an ordinary mortal acting the part of priest. Think how long it took to build the great cathedrals’

‘Part of it was to the Glory of God ... but I bet it was in the interests of the architects and master masons — or were the architects and the master masons one and the same? ... well — it was in their interests to keep the building going. Masons were as powerful then as they are now’

This was a side of Genista that Colley hadn’t experienced for some time — or, if he had, he’d ignored it; failed to foster it. Of course she could be — was — every bit as good as — better than — Chaite. He felt stimulated. But he’d nearly lost the thread: ‘What? Masons?’

‘Yes, as powerful now as they were then’

‘But in a different way. It’s all Inspector Knacker and Arthur Daley now, isn’t it? Making secret signs at the judge when it’s too late’

‘I don’t know. Chief Superintendent Knacker, perhaps. But my grandfather was a Mason. We’ve still got the regalia at home. It all makes me feel a bit sick, actually’

‘Why’s that? Perhaps they just like playing Secret Societies’

‘Perhaps. But I didn’t find out till after he was dead. And then it put him in quite a different light for me’

‘Yes. Anyway, the point is that I think the masons and the priests must have been pulling at opposite ends of the same string — a sort of mutual blackmail. They were both on to a good thing with their building to the Glory of God, and they needed to keep their financiers sweet. That way, they’d got everybody from the king downwards at their mercy’

‘Some people must have questioned the system — hence the Inquisition, heretics, witches’

‘I think that’s a bit catch-all. But I agree that the Church — as we must now call what we’re talking about — had a vested interest in its self-preservation’

‘And it took a king to shake it — Henry VIII. And of course even he saw the necessity of keeping it going’

‘Why even he? He was no fool. He transferred power from Rome to himself’

old male chauvinist’s motives weren’t quite the same as you’d like to believe’

‘Well, I suppose it’s difficult enough to understand the ins and outs of it, let alone trying to imagine the problems of being king — and in the sixteenth century, at that’

‘Certainly the king is both warder and prisoner. But we were talking about priests and masons being in putative cahoots’

‘Yes we were. I submit that the contribution the masons made was more tangible. Everybody could see the results of their skill. Not quite the same as promising everlasting life — or alternatively hell fire and damnation. How could the priests know that what they said was true?’

‘Well they didn’t, of course, any more than they do now. But as long as people believed them, it didn’t matter — except morally — perhaps’

‘Ah ... but who’s to say that the good they did in keeping things in order didn’t outweigh the immorality? — If indeed it was immoral?’

‘Hold on — you’re making the assumption that they didn’t believe. Was it so immoral if they were genuine believers? — as I think they were’

‘And I think they still are ... must be’

‘Maybe. But what worries me is that when it comes down to it, you — we — just don’t — can’t — have any proof of the existence of God. The study of theology doesn’t mean you know anything about God:

He knew no more of God than I’

‘And if you were unknown to one another:

The accusative rhymes better, and could be equally true’

‘Hmmm. I see what you mean. Perhaps our idea of God is mistaken. But I

guess that the Robinsons and Cupitts of this world have explored that pretty thoroughly’

‘Not to mention the Jenkinses. But leaving them aside, if God is omnipresent, then God must be everything, not just everywhere. So we must be part of God, whether we like it or not’

‘Oh God — if there be a God, Save my soul — if I have a soul’

‘What was that?’

‘Said to be a prayer uttered by one of Cromwell’s soldiers’

‘Was he hedging his bets, or being intellectually honest?’

you’re a 2-D being you could live on a 3-D surface not only without realising it but — even if you did realise it — you still couldn’t comprehend it’

‘The Flatland analogy. But look — if you live in 3-D (which is doubtless a concept you accept and agree to) and our fourth dimension is time, then our 3-D space could be a 5-D surface. Or else it’s a 4-D surface and time is the fifth dimension’

‘That makes it easier. But not much’

‘That’s all very well, but it doesn’t help with a proof of God’

‘I’m not trying to prove God; I’m musing on the dimensions. Anyway, don’t you see, we can’t prove God because if we can’t comprehend we wouldn’t know when we had a proof’

‘Suppose we look at it this way. God gives us free will ...’

‘I’m not sure that I accept that, but I’ll take it as a hypothesis. What then?’

‘Well, just take it that either we have, or we think we have, free will. So we have the choice of knowing (or not knowing) God. The choice for is what we call faith. But if we have faith, there’s no question of having to make the choice. It’s a vicious circle’

‘So you’re saying that for things we can’t comprehend faith’s the analogue of proof?’

‘I didn’t think of it like that, but it seems quite neat. Like miracles being the result of technology we don’t understand’

‘Oh, not that old flying-saucers-in-the-Bible stuff?’

‘It’s not that old. After all, we’ve only had flying saucers — as such — since 1948. But, yes, I think if you look at biblical mysteries, or miracles, in the light of modern technology, you might see my point proved. Well, food for thought, anyway. What do you think about free will?’

‘I think that whatever happens at any given moment is determined by what happened the moment before’

‘Uh-huh — The ball no question makes of ayes and noes, But right or left as strikes the player goes — this must be a universal property of matter. It was all determined at the moment of the Big Bang. We happen to be one embodiment of matter’

‘You’re presupposing that thought is matter?’

‘Well, you surely wouldn’t argue that thought doesn’t reside in some tangible system; that memory has no physical mechanism?’

‘No-o-o’

‘But surely, when I decide to do something, I make a choice; I have free will. Whether or not I take my umbrella; whether I walk or go by car; whether I buy cauliflower or broccoli. You can’t say all these sorts of trivia, which go on all the time for all of us, are predetermined?’

‘That’s exactly what I am saying. But what I’m not saying is that you can predict what choice you’re going to make’

‘And do you think God can? It takes far longer to describe a trivial decision — let alone a weighty one — than it does to make the decision. You might say "Oh, sod it, I’ll take my umbrella and walk." All the elements of your lifetime’s experience which lead to that snap decision would take some unravelling’

‘Of course, But you’re thinking of it in our human terms again. And you know that if you tried to analyse the umbrella choice you couldn’t anyway. But I think that God can understand it — if He wants to — because He is everywhere and hence everything. And He doesn’t necessarily work in the same time frame as we do. In fact, He embodies all time — past, present and future ...’

The telephone rang; some trivial query about manning stalls at the school fete. Genista attended to it. Colley felt a strange exhilaration at the conversation they’d just had. If the atmosphere was right ... but for now, the moment had passed. It was time for bed — again.

‘Who was that?’

‘A Person from Porlock’ replied Genista.

As the week progressed, Colley saw Chaite from time to time in corridor and canteen. She seemed to be avoiding him. He was reminded of her more often by the continual stream of memoranda she was circulating prior to her departure. On Monday, she introduced him to her successor, Carolyn Banks. In some peculiar way, Carolyn’s presence seemed to sever the link between Colley and Chaite; Carolyn spelt finality.

Most of Colley was now glad that Chaite had left his obsession. The rest of him was angry in turns that this could have happened — and it was that part of him that tried to recapture the thrill of seeing her — with a complete lack of success — that bolstered the morale of the larger part.

That Friday evening, Colley and Chaite met on their way to the front door. Colley beamed at her with born-again self-righteousness, thinking she couldn’t possibly know how he felt. Then he saw the look on her face, and realised the truth, for ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.

Colley: Let me confess that we two must be twain

Chaite: O, call me not to justify the wrong

Colley: O, never say that I was false of heart

Chaite: Our parting, oh so swift, shall be so long

That was it. They could not know that they would never meet again.