How strange, she thought, lying under a tree in the park, the white military buildings of the Mall opposite, sun glancing in. She moved some hair to shade her eyes, and looked up through the leaves, maple-shaped, green, as though pasted on the blue enamel sky.
At home the rains had started and it was cooler in the daytime, sometimes sweater weather. Here, in London, she was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, lying on the grass and looking at the sky. Summer had appeared with the unreality it always had in northern Europe.
And I am here, she thought, her mind lazy, her eyes open to the blue, the leaves printed above, occasionally a flash of sun. A car would go by. I am here … I was there. No, first I was here, a boy ran by, a little boy, with a small bicycle and his father following him, calling, ‘Martin!’
I am here, I was here before, then I was there. Before that too, I was there.
There was a book beside her; her finger marked the place. A bottle of water, a small bag. The interview had seemed to go well. This weekend, she would see Neeti in Manchester. There was a train from Euston this afternoon.
The date, the 26th of June, stuck in her head, it meant something. She breathed the scent of grass, thought of another sunny day, the honey walls of a Cambridge college, white wine, poached salmon. The same date as their graduation. I must tell Amy. Her stomach twisted at the thought of Vikram, his misery, and in a different way, Sathya and his. Again a picture of her and Amy, but seen from outside, as though figures in photographs, at the sunlit lunch. With what other eyes I used to watch – if I be he that watched … Not me, she thought of the memory. The me was slippery, it would not be found, the I, she waited for it. Another car passing, voices. There is a story that connects that place and that person with this one, with now. Somehow I got here. But I don’t want to tell that story, and besides I don’t remember all of it.
To be flat on the earth, it made you feel safe. The world might be turning but you would not at this time fall from it into space.
The train left from Euston. To get to Euston you – the blue line. But here – the brown line. She would work it out. Amazing not to remember, when you considered how much time the other self used to spend underground.
Heat infused the skin, the eyelids. She hadn’t long to wait, simply some time to kill before the train. And, now, eternity. Eternity and a train to catch.
There was a story behind it. Who could recall?
However, the air smelled lovely: warm, flowery, of hay.
She lost herself. Something fell on her face, and she lifted it and sat up sleepily. A leaf, green, but a part of it yellowed.
Silence; then, not far away, a couple of men kicking a ball. Leela looked at the leaf, put it in the book to mark her place, and got up to walk towards the train.