Dr Benson felt around the foot without interest. The patient would not detect this. His consummate professionalism incorporated an ability to charm outwardly without the expenditure of any actual warmth or attention. As he rang the tuning fork and held it against the ankle, he was in fact able to devote all his mental capacity to running through his equipment list for next month’s climbing trip and considering whether he ought to pick up a couple more carabiners over lunch.
He touched the metal object briefly on the back of each of the patient’s hands, then turned it on its flat side and stroked them both. He proceeded with the reflex hammer: symmetrical, satisfactory; knees and arms, twitches and kicks. The optic nerve, viewed through his top-of-the-range ophthalmoscope, was normal too.
Tension headaches, he was able to tell the patient, with the odd migraine thrown in. Prophylaxis justified. The options were outlined on a leaflet the patient could take with him. Jim ran through it all with apparent enthusiasm, seeming to strike the perfect balance between empathy and efficiency.
The latter was important. He needed to be back in an hour at the most.
Without even realising his time had been condensed, the patient bowed out, grateful and impressed.
*
Maalik twisted the mop around in the bucket, until the slate-grey water stopped dripping through the wringer, then turned it upside down and planted it like a flagpole over the drain by the back door. He washed his hands with the bar of soap in the iron-stained sink and squeezed behind the reception desk, crushed at an angle into a corner of the dark hallway, to take a quick look at the checklist. Collect dirty linen. Wash cubicle floors. Top up leaflets. Check common room. Order kitchen staples. Confirm forthcoming bookings. He was ahead, having risen at 5am as he always did to reflect and grasp the day.
He checked that the strip of sandwich card was still tucked inside his pocket. The pencilled references reminded him of the dots and letters and capitals on the backs of all those library books. He locked the door behind him, leaving the key under the pot, and set off. It was only the second time he had been there. A week yesterday had been the very first time he had plucked up the courage to put a foot inside. It had seemed too hopeless, too intimidating, for many years and months. But for some reason, perhaps boosted by recent reassurance regarding his improved grasp of the present perfect tense, today it seemed worth a try.
*
Sofia didn’t touch the “pay” button this time – unable to bear the thought of the whole thing seizing up again – and carefully pressed the printer symbol instead, breathing out at last as the blank form sailed smoothly out over the rollers. She signed it off, wrote out the cheque and folded the form into a perfect triptych, tucking it carefully into a plain brown business envelope to catch the 11.30am post.
*
Hugo liked to get out at lunchtime, whenever that was. He could concentrate for phenomenally lengthy periods of time, whether observing through the microscope, following the abstruse presentations of his more senior colleagues, writing up reports or collecting thousands of tiny samples on a quadrat on the beach. But when that time was up, the activity could not be prolonged. He would spring to his feet and head elsewhere, needing to shake his mind free for the next step in his day.
Today the moment came early. Hugo strode easily away from the lab, carrying in his rucksack a slim paper he needed to absorb and the ham sandwiches Florence had left him in the fridge. He covered the paving slabs three at a time, leaving footprints in the sun-softened frost, making for the park, which he circled once before alighting on the bench beside the pond.
He took it over like a large bird on slightly too small a branch, all arms, scarf ends and flapping rucksack straps, tails twisting from his overcoat, unwrapping the sandwich and despatching it in four comfortable bites, while his mind turned itself to paternal project possibilities. But he was distracted as he tossed the little iridescent ball of cling film unsuccessfully towards the bin. Stooping to retrieve it, his eye was caught by a patch of lecanora muralis, interspersed further under the bench with what he thought might just be, unusually positioned, xanthoria parietina. He stroked the second lichen and, on closer inspection of its central discs, decided he was right. Scraping up a fingernail’s worth, and wrapping it carefully inside an old receipt, he put it in his pocket and set off back into town.
As he passed the post office, he remembered the readdressed postcard and pushed it through the slot, sending it one step further along its dog-legged way.
*
Sofia pushed the letter in until its weight was just over the pivot point, then let go, allowing it to somersault into the dark hole. It scuffled down the sides and through the empty air, hitting the metal floor with a quiet whump. She didn’t mind that it must wait for the next post. The process had begun.
She turned, smiling to herself, her insides bubbling up with little jets of excitement, which thrilled and ached and throbbed as they coursed through her body, looking for an outlet. It was all she could do to stop herself bursting into a skip and a jump as she turned away.
Her restraint was fortuitous. For what she saw next, as she turned to walk again along the street, required every ounce of self-control that she possessed.
*
He was staring through the window of the outdoor shop, leaning back slightly with his hands inside deep pockets, unconsciously tautening the sleek lines of his sharp wool coat. His face was dispassionate as he took in the display, neither approving nor dismissive of the goods that he surveyed. He might have been scrutinising a CT scan in the presence of a patient for all he revealed of his interpretation or intention, and he gave away nothing regarding his next move.
There was less than six metres of pavement between them.
When he did make his decision, to turn up the street towards the door and make a purchase from the shop, there was no choice but to make contact. The lids of his eyes were lowered a little, counterbalancing the slight rise of his chin. Hers were raised in helpless disbelief, already locking on.
In that second, he noticed her and saw that she saw him.
She was caught agape. The letter was gone. She had no prop to prompt an opening gambit or aid in her escape. She thought she detected in his face a moment of uncertainty – or revulsion, guilt, horror, sheer surprise, she didn’t know what. It passed in an instant. He knew the right thing to do. He always knew, socially, the right thing to do. With a confidence honed in establishments far removed from his place of birth, he stepped forward.
‘Sofia! Good to see you!’ Out of the clinically detached persona came the dinner party voice – carefully cultivated, though one could hardly detect that now – the intonation politely intensified, pressing just the right amount on the word “see”.
She had nothing to say. Everything in the world to ask but nothing to convey.
‘It must be fifteen, twenty years?’ He carried on smoothly, talking over the gap, smiling in perfect amazement.
Twenty-one, she reckoned silently. The crusty mountain boots had been drying out since then.
‘I can’t believe it. I really can’t. How are you, Sofs?’ He emphasised the “are” as if he genuinely cared – and used her pet name again, as he might to a younger sibling or a girl with a crush on him at school. She winced a little – she’d forgotten the name had come to Hugo second hand – and half-expected to be ruffled on the head. Instead, he pressed her firmly in a choreographed embrace, with no more intimacy than if she had been the girlfriend of a girlfriend, or the sister of a bride. She was crushed by it. Crimson. But still no words came out.
He was unperturbed by the silence. After two decades of consulting, rephrasing was a natural reflex. ‘So, are you well? Is everything going OK? How are things with you?’
She would have to provide an answer. Once, she would have responded with a sparkling account. Now there were no highlights, no medals or escapades.
‘I’m-I’m good,’ she said at last. God she must be nervous. She went berserk if Tim or Florence ever used that American phrase.
‘How did the psychology go? Did you do anything with that? What’ve you been up to? Do you have family, kids?’ He was being generous, offering her an array of questions from which to pick.
She took up the challenge. ‘Happily married,’ she said hoarsely, ‘and three fabulous kids.’ She wanted to outdo him and figured procreating above the national average must be good.
‘Wow. You have been busy. Boys? Girls?’
‘Two boys, one girl. Youngest’s started school. Eldest’s doing early GCSEs this year.’
‘And do they take after you? Cups and prizes galore?’
‘They’re pretty switched on,’ she said defensively. ‘You?’
He appeared not to hear the question. ‘Please tell me those incredible locks have been bequeathed to the next generation.’
She couldn’t quite believe it. The compliment might have been paid to one he’d never met before, striking up small talk at a party or a bar. It was as if he’d never touched her hair, or seen it damply thrown across a pillowcase at dawn.
But she played the game.
‘They’ve all got madly curly hair, that’s for sure,’ she joked, ‘without the grey highlights, of course.’
‘There’s been a lot of water under the bridge,’ he said, declining to make comment. ‘Personally, I’m going for the distinguished look.’
It was a joke of a joke. Everything about him was already eminent, and she detected only the slightest sheen of iron at his temples as he gestured towards his face.
For the first time in the interchange, the flow came to a halt. She was flushed with awkwardness, desperate to bolt away and process the bizarre event, but she had to know if he had been within reach all this time.
‘I saw you,’ she blurted out, ‘at the hospital. I went back for a check-up, after I’d banged my head.’ She lied a little. ‘Someone bashed into me on the Fir Road roundabout.’
The answer turned out to be simple.
‘Really? Well, I’m in there once or twice a week now. My private clinic’s attached to the General. Been doing some sessions for them for quite a few months now.’
She was slightly puzzled. ‘Did you get to be a neurosurgeon in the end?’
‘Neurologist. Better hours and long weekends. Talking of which, I need to grab some equipment for next Saturday before the clock strikes one.’
He had his exit sorted. The shop door handle was within reach. He looked down at her for a moment. ‘Do you climb anymore?’
She shook her head. ‘Too busy. Too busy working.’
‘Oh, right. Did you use that psychology in the end? What is it you do?’
‘Research,’ she said grandly. It was almost the truth. ‘I’m involved in some research at the moment. The brain and memory.’
‘Great stuff!’ he said, with patronising encouragement. ‘We must keep in touch.’
Over the research? Or for another reason? Or just because that was the kind of thing people who’d once known each other said when they bumped into each other after two decades? It was obviously the latter, so she made as if to gather herself and move on down the street.
Her path was blocked by a field force emanating from his arm, which rose up slightly from his body, expecting to be obeyed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’ll text you. What can I get you on?’
She was taken aback – ridiculously flattered, angry he didn’t still have the number down somewhere. He typed it in with a thumb clad in a black silk touchscreen glove. Then in a single move, he swiped it and the conversation shut.
‘Great to see you,’ he reaffirmed, as he slipped it into an inner pocket by his chest and reached with his other hand for the shop door. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said.
*
She trotted off, over the cold paving slabs. The hoar frost was diminishing – melding with flattened cigarette butts and gobbets of grey gum, and she slipped upon her heel in her haste to get away. It was ridiculous. Utterly insane. He’d replaced her twenty-one years ago – she’d given back the engagement ring – and here she was, blushing like a first year at a freshers’ fair, captivated by a distant glimpse of his strong silhouette, hot under the collar as his shaven skin came close. She kept on walking, tumbling forwards. Was he still with her, Inika? Did they have beautiful children too? That would be a glorious genetic feast if so: black and jet-black hair, long and longer limbs, dark-grey and lustrous ebony eyes, encapsulated on both sides in nature-loving skin.
The interchange had been entirely typical. She had been tongue-tied, and he had somehow extracted everything whilst giving nothing away.
She sped up now, to catch the green man at the traffic lights. As she reached it, her phone beeped. She stopped on the curb, leaving drivers wondering if she would cross or not.
There was a single message.
Jim Benson, it said, on a blue lozenge.
She hesitated for a moment.
Jim Benson.
She pressed it and imported him into her contact list.
*
He slid the phone back into the silk-lined pocket and walked directly to the display, brushing past a rack of high-tech, wick-dry, garments on the way. Next month, he would look as clean-lined and assured in that type of clothing as he did now. More so, perhaps, for in here he was out of sync with his environment, a tall figure in dark wool trench coat, cut from the pages of a business magazine, standing beside advertisements for the grassy crags of Ingleborough or Ladhar Bheinn.
She was running in front of him, teasing as she overtook him on her way up to the top. The thinly rolled bandana held the bounding shock of twisting curls just back across her head, the pretty, damp, unfettered fringe escaping underneath. He would overtake her of course, but the audacity charmed him. He let her run on and reach back as if to take his hand with the long fingers on her pale, slender arm, annoyingly accurate at pinpointing exactly where they were; alluring in the faded white T-shirt with the sweat darkening the armpit and the thread of cotton unravelling at the sleeve.
Jim ran his eye down the packaging. Nuts. Hexes. Offsets. Cams. He’d come in for replacement carabiners, but the three lobe cams would be worth having too, fitting narrower crevices than those he already had. He slid the two most expensive off the long display hook, adding them to his brace of purchases by threading them onto his forefinger.
Firelight.
Logs ticking and sizzling. Penny-sized discs of sap released every so often by the heat, only to boil away in vanishing bubbles of spit. The wood was wet in parts, though expertly laid, and they had to elbow their way up close in their sleeping bags to feel the benefit of the fire. Its blood-orange light held their tiny camp in a protective orb, suffusing them with its own kind of warmth – a radiance borne out by the sparkle in the blackness of their pupils and the pounding of their hearts through to the stone beneath the grass.
He was holding the platinum ring, gilded by the fierce embers, over the tip of her finger, sliding it down as they stared at one another, confident, challenging, laughing. He had never experienced failure, did not expect it, and she didn’t stop him as it slipped to a halt, in its rightful place.
‘Is that everything, sir?’ Jim brought himself back to the task in hand and placed the metal objects with a clatter on the cash desk. Nothing in his face revealed the lapse in his attention.
‘Just those, thanks,’ he said.
‘Can I interest you in any of our special offers? Three for two on the Kendal mint cake? Half price His-and-Her bamboo socks?’
He shook his head.
‘No. No, thank you. I don’t need anything else.’