27

We can no longer see the station, it’s hidden round a bend. For the moment I don’t want to talk to anyone—I want only to be left in peace. (And I’ve not the least idea where Walt is.) Squashed into my corner of the carriage I want to concentrate on Rosalind.

But I must be tired; even more so than I’d realized. I suppose I quickly fall asleep.

And have a dream.

Or a vision, or a revelation, or whatever you might wish to call it. For, actually, it’s not like any dream I’ve ever experienced.

Because in it I see some guy who’s a complete stranger. And yet I feel as much concern for him as though he were a member of my own family.

It turns out, after a while, his name is Tom.

Tom? To me, this has always meant my brother—and I’ve already mentioned to Rosalind my hope that if we have a son he will be called Thomas. “Darling, you have my word on it!” she’d said at once.

Yet, anyway, this Tom (who incidentally was wearing a dark blue suit, but one that in some way looked unfashionable) had just returned to his apartment—well, I guess that it was his. And when I say ‘just’, I mean maybe half an hour ago. The first thing he did was call out someone’s name.

“Tex?”

There wasn’t any answer.

Tom merely shrugged. He must have assumed that Tex—do people really call their children that?—might either have taken himself off for a walk or gone to see a movie.

But he seemed disappointed. You could tell this by the way he walked into the sitting room—even by the way he poured himself a Jameson’s, sat down and took a wristwatch from his pocket. It was a Rolex. I have one like it—although when in this dream (for want of a better word) I shot back my cuff with a view to checking the resemblance, mine wasn’t there.

I couldn’t help wondering why he’d keep a Rolex in his pocket.

Then I decided he must have collected it from the repair shop. Probably within the last hour or so. Because when his sleeve rode up I saw something a good deal cheaper—presumably a stopgap.

And he had evidently missed it, the Rolex! He seemed to be admiring it now as he must have done when it was brand-new. Even when he reached out and activated some machine which apparently recorded phone calls in your absence—even then, he was still looking at the watch.

On the machine, there was a message he had clearly been waiting for. He looked expectant as he settled back.

“Hi! Herb Kramer here, from the embassy.” (Which I guess means the American embassy, since the caller sounds like a native of New England.) “Have the information you wanted, Tom, as regards your friend, Mr Matthew Cassidy, of New Haven, Connecticut.”

Oh, for Pete’s sake! Dear Lord! Is my subconscious really that egotistic?

(Well, yes, actually—I suppose it is!)

“And most of it checked out, exactly as you gave it: meatpacking business, older brother who died in ’42, Cassidy himself over here from ’43 to ’45, lieutenant in the United States Air Force, stationed at Boxted, then at Halesworth—both in Suffolk. And he married a Marjorie, too: a Miss Marjorie Carpenter, daughter of a very rich and eminent Connecticut family. All spot on. Except for one thing. No children. Also…and here’s the heck of a coincidence. Admitted into hospital, in deep coma, last Monday. Condition critical. In fact, I put through another call some five minutes ago, 4.55pm British time. Old guy appears to be sinking fast; only an hour or so left, the doctors think. So I don’t know where in hell that leaves our young amnesiac, do you? Why is life never simple? Call me as soon as you can, we’ll try to figure something out.”

Well, now!

Oh, my God!

Beat that!

So much detail. And so concise—so coherent! So memorable! How can it possibly be a dream?

And above all…so accurate!

(Except that, obviously, I am not going to marry Marjorie, and therefore whether or not the pair of us would have had children is irrelevant. But apart from this and the startling fact that I appear to be dying…plus the similarly wacky reference to some young amnesiac…apart from these three perplexing yet—one hopes!—fairly tangential things, the accuracy is phenomenal.)

But why, I wonder, why on earth should Tom have been asking about me?

At all events. He didn’t listen to anything else. For several minutes he simply stayed put, still gazing at the wristwatch. Now not so much in admiration. More in sheer bewilderment.

Then he got up and went into the hall. Quietly opened the door to what was clearly a small bedroom. I guessed he must be looking for this mysterious Tex character; guessed it had occurred to him that Tex might have been there all along, sleeping.

Is Tex ‘our young amnesiac’?

Though, whether he is or not, he wasn’t on the bed. Tom stood in the doorway for a minute. He seemed to be reviewing the few personal possessions he saw lying on the carpet and the chest of drawers.

“But no children! Tex, that’s absurd. We only had to glance at that photograph of Trixie’s…”

He leans against the doorjamb.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! You looked so much like him you could practically have been him! And Kramer’s seen the photograph! How can he say you aren’t the man’s son?”

Slowly, he goes back to his armchair in the sitting room, retrieves his drink. Listens to see if there’s any further message—at least, one of the kind he wants. There isn’t. He stares at the telephone as though suddenly willing it to ring.

“But Tex? Why au revoir? And what made you leave your watch?” He bites his lip.

I know what’s in his mind. Were these things significant? And—if they were—why didn’t I realize it?

“Some sort of payment?” he says, aloud. “No, that’s nonsense! And you know I wouldn’t have wanted payment. Not one penny.” He smiles, a little wryly. “Not one red cent.”

A moment later, he repeats that earlier phrase. “Au revoir…?”

Until the next time, he must be thinking. Yes… Until we meet again.

He takes a further slow sip of the whisky. He swallows it, notices his glass is almost empty, is about to drain it—probably contemplates refilling it—but then…

He disappears.

Tom simply disappears.

One second he’s there.

The next…he isn’t.

Well, I suppose in a dream a character can do anything he likes.

In a dream, yes.

But I still can’t believe it was entirely that—even though, bit by bit, I’m being forced to accept it might have been.

Yet if I have dozed off for a while, here in this crowded carriage, I don’t want any of my comrades to realize I’m awake. All those astonishing details, so clear to me a minute ago, they’re already beginning to slip away. And it strikes me as important: I’ve got to do what I can to hold onto them.

For instance, I know Tom lived in a flat that unexpectedly transformed itself the instant he had vanished: suddenly possessed murals and stained glass and parquet flooring. What would any dream-expert make of that, I wonder—assuming, of course, I was still able to describe it? Stupidly, the only thing I can now recall with total clarity is the presence of a wristwatch. And I guess that’s only because it was a Rolex—the sort I’m wearing now. (Yes, and I am wearing it. Why on earth should I ever have dreamt otherwise?)

Which reminds me. I’ll be needing to adjust it soon—put it back a few hours. After two long years in a place you’d think that such a notion might bring either regret or excitement. But in fact it brings neither; predominantly I feel happy, relaxed, peaceful. I’m aware this may sound odd—when at one and the same time I ache for Rosalind. Yet somehow it doesn’t seem a paradox. And despite the buzz of conversation all around me I keep my eyes tight closed, wishing to remain in my own private world for as long as I can—a world in which I now stand, quite suddenly, in someone else’s back yard. Looking about me.

Did I say putting my watch back a few hours? Maybe I meant putting it forward—and not just by a few hours, either, but actually a few years. Because, incredibly, I guess it’s our own back yard: mine and Rosalind’s and Tom’s! It’s the sort of garden I used to read about in children’s books. I’d tell myself that someday—when I was all grown up—someday I would have a garden exactly like it. But did I imagine it then with a picnic rug spread on the grass and a scattering of picture books and toys? There’s even a rocking horse and a tricycle and several piles of building blocks.

And not only am I able to see myself. I can actually hear my voice—mine, despite its present gruffness.

“Fee, fie, fo, fum! I smell the blood of an Englishmun!”

I sniff the air, seeming to luxuriate in the appetizing aromas wafting towards me.

“Oh, goody! Bacon? Sausage? Steak-and-kidney pudding? No! Better than any of those! The unmistakable scent of little boy! There might be a little boy round here I could gobble all up for my supper!”

No answer, other than a giggle. Or, rather, a series of giggles.

“And, yes—half English, too! Mm! Where are you, my little one? Oh, where are you, my tasty precious?”

Slowly, I’m moving now towards a bush. I’ve got my arms raised above my head and am clearly all set to pounce. The giggles grow more nervous.

So I show clemency and swoop down fast. I release my two-year-old from both the pleasure and the pain of such anticipation.

I gather him into my arms.

“Again!” he says. “Now do it again, Daddy!”

“Again?” repeats the ogre. “Oh, no! Little pipsqueaks can’t give orders to great big terrifying giants!”

He looks at me inquiringly—waiting to be told, in that case, what little pipsqueaks can do.

“First of all, they have to help me find their momma! They have to act like a really smart detective. They have to think hard and tell me where she might be hiding!”

My son hesitates for a second, then with a broad and cheeky smile points towards a tree. I approach it stealthily, finger to my lips, holding him closely in my other arm.

The instant before we get there, however, Rosalind steps out in mock dismay.

Though it isn’t completely mock. “Oh, I can’t stand it any longer! I don’t know how you can love it so, my little angel. I find the suspense unbearable.”

But our son disregards this.

“We’ve got you back, Mommy!”

He manages to sound both very serious and quietly gleeful.

My voice changes from a growling giant’s—a ravening beast’s—to that of your more average, mid-twentieth-century, American dad.

“Yes, we’ve got you back, me and this clever little boy of ours!”

And Thomas chuckles, apparently not in the least bit fazed by the rapidity of my transition. He puts his thumb in his mouth, lays his head against my chest.

“That’s right, I’ve got you both back. Isn’t that so, Tom? I’ve got you both back.”