William leans into the door. The feel of it against his shoulder is the same, the ding of the bell is the same, and the sweet, yeasty smell is the same.
Two Chelsea buns, please, he says, infected by Martin’s excitement at the syrupy thud into the crisp, white box. Make that three, Martin says at the last minute.
‘Martin always got two,’ he tells Gloria as they leave, ‘and the first one was gone by the time we’d crossed this road.’
Gloria nearly steps into the open gutter. ‘Whoops!’ She grabs his arm. ‘I nearly went in!’
‘You wouldn’t be the first,’ he says, instantly regretting it, because now, here’s Evelyn, twisting her ankle and landing with one knee in the water. She’s looking up at him first in pain, then with a laugh, to stop him worrying.
To his dismay, he realises the pavement he and Gloria stand on is fragile as eggshells. At any moment, a memory could crack open the surface and he’ll be swallowed whole.
‘We often saw students fall into it on their bikes.’ He attempts a laugh.
‘I’m not surprised.’ She squeezes his hand.
William falls silent, and as Trumpington Street becomes King’s Parade, and – Oh God! – the Copper Kettle, Gloria’s presence is less comforting, less real, as another woman returns with her fragrance, the bright beam of her attention on him and butter biscuits in a Tupperware box.
‘What? What is it?’ Gloria turns at the twitch and wince of his face.
‘Nothing.’ He speeds up to try and shake it off.
‘I understand,’ she says evenly. ‘This is where everything went belly up. I understand.’
He remains silent, noticing the Senate House, with its chalky glow. Looking down at the pavement, his feet move relentlessly forward and he concentrates on Gloria’s hand tight round his.
‘I just want to enjoy the singing. And be proud of you.’
For a brief second he imagines that; listening, with Gloria knowing this was him once. But as the pavement gives way to the cobbled forecourt, with the uneven brown, red and grey stones beneath his soles, he stops dead.
‘I can’t, Gloria.’ He stares at the ground. ‘I can’t go in.’
‘Course you can,’ she says lightly, tugging him towards the entrance.
‘No!’ He didn’t mean to shout. A couple on their way in glance at them. ‘You go,’ he says under his breath, ‘I’ll meet you in forty-five minutes.’
She puts her face close to his so he has to look at her. ‘We’ve come all this way. Please. For me.’
He shakes his head. ‘I can’t.’
He marches twice around the perimeter of Jesus Green, then follows the avenue of London plane trees towards the river. He stops to watch a swan carve a velvety V in the water before walking under the bridge. Gradually he becomes aware of the repeated thwock of a tennis ball and two students on the courts to his right. The surface shines from recent rain. He watches the old tennis ball fly, ragged, between the students. If only he could do things others seem to do effortlessly; think about his past, knock it around like that beaten-up tennis ball, as if his memories could be prodded and poked without bursting open and destroying him.
He sits on a bench next to the tennis court and wonders how he’ll make this up to Gloria. Maybe forget the sandwiches back at their bed and breakfast and go out for a meal? William checks his watch, stands up and heads back to the college.
From a distance, he can see the forecourt dotted with people, and even from here, he can spot Gloria’s orange coat. She might be talking to someone, but he’s too far away to tell. Getting nearer, he’s puzzled by the group of men standing there. He speeds up, unsure of what mood he’ll find Gloria in and wondering whether between them they’ve got the energy to salvage what’s left of their time, to pretend that he’s all right.
48
He wasn’t mistaken; the men are down and outs, hanging around Gloria. Her voice carries on the spring breeze. Her bold, London voice. She’s talking to a tall man, not scruffy like the others, with his back to William. He’s close enough now to smell the acrid, pungent odour of the tramps. Gloria spots him; he’s relieved to see she smiles.
‘He brings me all the way to Cambridge for evensong and at the last minute he buggers off’ – he knows this is for his benefit – ‘does a bleedin’ runner.’
‘Abandonment withstanding,’ a cultured voice booms from the broad body that stands between him and Gloria, ‘did you enjoy it?’
‘It was beautiful,’ she says, glancing over the man’s shoulder at William. ‘I don’t need my dopey husband to tell me that.’ A gust of wind folds Gloria’s hair across her face. She laughs and pulls it back.
She’s looking at William, but he’s no longer thinking about telling her how sorry he is in that moment of eye contact. He’s no longer wondering about the men in dirty coats and tattered shoes. He reaches up and rests his hands on the broad shoulders, on the soft tweed. He feels his face split by a smile as the figure turns.
The man is startled. He looks back at Gloria before turning again to William, and then his wide, creased brow smooths. He laughs and his long arms reach out.
‘William!’
Engulfed in a tight hug, William laughs too. ‘Martin.’
William and Gloria sit at a table tucked in a corner of the crowded Eagle pub.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Gloria sips her shandy, her eyes bright and excited, as if she’s just met her own long-lost friend. She’s put her bag on the spare seat and William has put Martin’s requested pint of bitter on the table. She leans into him. ‘I was all set to give you the silent treatment, but your faces when you saw each other!’ She takes another sip, puts her glass down, and covers his hand with hers.
He shrugs. ‘When I first realised it was him, it was just …’ He pauses. ‘Just joy! But now I can’t stop thinking about what I did to him.’ Tell them, William. Those tear-filled eyes.
‘It didn’t look as if that was his first memory, did it?’
‘I suppose not.’