There’s no point describing how Tuesday went; I don’t remember much of it anyway. The day was spent in a mixture of anticipation and dread – and wondering if I could find some way of calling it off. I’d started to imagine what my friends would think if they saw me talking to her – then I started to be afraid that we might be interrupted by someone like Dennis – and I ended by realising that having a chat about sf didn’t amount to much of an event in anyone’s book and I was getting worked up about nothing.

So I was comparatively calm from about four-thirty pm ‘til half-past six. From half-six to six-fifty I sat on the edge of my bed, feeling slightly ill, thinking of possible excuses for not going. When, at six-fifty-five, I still hadn’t found any, I pulled on my jacket and went out. I took a few of the books with me, but none of my own notes; I decided I wasn’t prepared to go into the subject of my own writing at this stage.

On the way there I started to wonder about her motives. After all, despite my manoeuvring it had been her idea to meet. Why should she want to talk to someone who must seem little more than an adolescent? Was sf that important to her? Had it been my imagination or was there something odd in her tone when she had spoken to me? As if she wasn’t quite sure she was doing the right thing. Or wasn’t sure quite what she was doing.

My feet started to drag a little as I approached the café. I told myself I was being stupid, but even so I nearly carried on past the place. I had to make quite an effort to walk up to the door.

It was about five past seven when I took my coffee back to a table in the corner. No doorway seat this time; I didn’t want to risk being seen from the street. I put the books in front of me but I knew it was a waste of time trying to read them, even casually.

The café seemed unusually deserted; one old man and a couple of middle-aged women. I tried to remember what was on TV on Tuesday nights; maybe they’d all rushed home to watch something. I wasn’t sure if I preferred it this way; there were less people about I might know, but if the place had been more crowded we could have blended into the background. And for the seven thousandth time I told myself I was being idiotic and blowing the whole thing out of proportion. Who the hell was going to pay any attention to the two of us, anyway?

The door opened a little, then stopped. It was her; she had paused as she was coming in and was talking to someone. I could make out another female shape through the window. Sally Willmott, probably. Barbara was nodding, as if in reassurance. Then she pushed the door fully open and walked in.

Stupidly I looked for signs that she’d taken some trouble with her appearance for this meeting. There were none. She smiled, a little nervously I thought, then turned to the counter. I wondered if I ought to go up to her, but I felt a little shaky and decided I was safer where I was.

I was still taking deep breaths in a vain effort to slow down my heart as she came towards me with her coffee. She smiled again. ‘I’ve just realised that we didn’t even introduce ourselves. I’m Barbara. Barbara Wright.’

I couldn’t resist it. ‘I know.’ I paused to let her think about that, regretted it, then rushed on: ‘Conrad …Athill.’ My voice sounded too high again. I wasn’t sure if I should extend my hand, and she looked similarly in doubt. She slipped sideways into the chair opposite me and said: ‘Can I ask how you knew my name?’ There was something slightly false about her tone, suddenly; a touch of the teacher coming back, I thought.

I wanted to make up something interesting but nothing came. ‘I was talking to Dennis about you. You know, Dennis Horseman,’ I prompted in response to her momentary blankness.

‘Oh, yes. Dennis.’

‘He said you used to teach at Coal Hill, a while back.’

‘A very long time ago, it feels like.’ There was lightness in her tone, but it sounded as though – I couldn’t place it at the time but I worked it out later – there was some kind of barrier between her and her past, something that would never let her go back. She lifted her eyebrows at me. ‘You were at Coal Hill?’

‘You sound surprised.’

‘Well,’ she said awkwardly. ‘You don’t…’

‘Seem the type? Not enough of a "Lahndan" Boy?’ I could see her unease and decided I didn’t want to play up the social cynicism too much with her. ‘My father’s a progressive type. Didn’t see any reason why his offspring should start out with any advantages just because of his rank and money.’

‘So what is your father – if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘Colonel, retired early. Did mostly intelligence work in the war, then a stint in Germany after. That’s where he met my mother.’ I forced a smile. ‘There, that’s the potted background, the stuff I trot out to anyone who seems vaguely interested. Anything else you need to know?’

She seemed to be sizing me up for a second. Then she shook her head. ‘Not for the moment. Now,’ she spread her hands, ‘is there anything you want to know about me?’

I let the question hang in the air for a few seconds, wondering briefly if I could get up the nerve to start off with some personal enquiries. ‘Well,’ I said, leaning back, ‘the thing that really intrigues me is why you’re so interested in science fiction.’

The directness of the approach seemed to disconcert her. Her hand went up to her hair and patted it and she looked away for a moment. Then she lowered her head for a moment before lifting her eyes slowly to meet mine. We looked at each other in silence for a moment, and then she almost whispered: ‘There’s…something I have to know about you. What kind of person are you?’

There was no suspicion in her eyes or her tone; just a deadly seriousness.

‘I’m not sure what you mean.’

She hesitated again. ‘I…it’s…there are things…’ She looked at me again and suddenly a terrible, almost angry despair seemed to cloud her face. ‘No. This is pointless.’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘You couldn’t understand. I couldn’t possibly make you understand. No one…no one can understand, except—’ She stopped herself and her head bowed. Her fingers dug into her hair. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been looking for someone – anyone – who might at least listen, but I can’t expect you…I mean, you’re a stranger. You don’t know me at all. There are things, things that have to be said or I think I’ll go mad, but there’s no one who could possibly…’

She pushed herself back in the chair and looked up. Her eyes closed for a moment. Then she assumed that schoolteacher manner again, a brittle façade. ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps this was a mistake. You must think I’m raving. I’d understand if you wanted to go. Please don’t feel you have to…’ She could not finish but waved a hand towards the door. ‘I’ll be all right. Really, I will.’

I hadn’t moved or reacted while she had been speaking. I was too intrigued by what was unfolding in front of me. I caught myself calculating what pose might most impress her in this state. I cut short that thought and just tried to reach her. ‘You still haven’t satisfied my curiosity,’ I said as gently as I could manage.

For a moment she looked blank.

‘About science fiction,’ I reminded her out of politeness, although I could see she had just recalled the question. ‘I’d be especially interested,’ I added, ‘because I haven’t the least idea why I like it myself.’

‘I don’t like it,’ she said flatly. She looked at the books stacked by my elbow. ‘A lot of it is boring, juvenile. Some of it is ridiculous. Some of it is terrifying.’

‘Ninety-five per cent of everything is shit,’ I said carelessly. And immediately hated myself for posing again. And then wondered if she’d take offence at my language.

She didn’t seem to notice. She reached across and took the book on the top of the pile. She glanced at the cover and then put it to one side and took the next. She held it with the cover towards me. ‘Have you read this one?’

It was The Man in the High Castle, by Philip K. Dick. I told her I hadn’t got around to it, but I knew roughly what it was about. ‘Some kind of alternative history, isn’t it?’

‘One in which the Axis powers won the war,’ she confirmed. She lowered the book, staring at the back of it as if it reminded her of something she preferred not to face.

‘Is that one of the books that you find terrifying?’ I said, leaning forward slightly to try to catch her eye.

She drew the book towards her without looking up. ‘How little we know about the way time works, about what makes the future, about what it might take to change the whole course of history.’

I started to speak, thought better of it, then thought what the hell. ‘Whatever happens, happens. History is made every moment, in the present, now. You can’t change it – only make it.’

She looked up at me. It was several moments before she spoke ‘But…suppose you went back?’

‘Time travel? Oh, that’s bo- rubbish. It doesn’t work. I don’t like time travel stories. I mean, they make for interesting ideas, I guess, but – well, the idea just doesn’t work for me.’

She muttered a sentence which contained the words ‘just an idea’ but I didn’t catch all of it. I decided she hadn’t wanted me to hear, and watched her intently to see where she would go from here. She let out a heavy breath and sat back, still holding the book. ‘So you think time travel is impossible?’

‘Who knows? But…yeah, I’d say so. People seem to treat time as if it was just another physical dimension – like Rod Taylor can really bolt together a few bits of bicycles and slip off into the future. You can’t get to the future; it doesn’t exist.’

She looked confused. ‘Rod Taylor?’

‘The Time Machine. Film…of the Wells book.’

‘Oh. Yes.’ She smiled, seemingly almost in spite of herself. ‘So the future doesn’t exist? What about the past?’

I was beginning to enjoy this. ‘Of course not. And don’t start giving me any shit about fossils or whatever. You know what I’m talking about. For instance, take…take the moment you walked in tonight. Where is that moment now? How could you possibly get back there? How would you do it? What route would you take?’ I leaned forward, sensing her interest. ‘Wheels move by friction on the ground, jets thrust against containment – what do you brace yourself against to move through time? Which direction do you face?’ I threw up my hands. ‘It’s crazy.’

She appeared to consider my words. She took a first sip of her coffee, which reminded me about mine. Luckily it was still warm-ish.

She held her cup in front of her. ‘You’ve read about Einstein’s work?’

‘A bit.’ I hoped she wouldn’t take me out of my depth; she didn’t seem the scientific type, but then I’m not, either.

‘You know about the time-dilation effect at great speeds? About what might happen if an object should reach the speed of light?’

I hummed non-committally. I’d read something about it but I’d be hanged if I could remember any of the details now.

She was on to me. ‘As I understand it,’ she said, a trace of the teacher appearing again, ‘the occupants of a spaceship that went very quickly out into space would age more slowly than the friends they left behind. They could return to earth five years later and only have aged by two years – or something like that. But then – if you see what I mean – where did their time go? How does that slowing down happen? And most important – what would happen if that effect was multiplied to an incredible degree? Could a ship that travelled at really unimaginable speeds…actually return before it left?’

I knew what my immediate response was. But I said the second thing that came to mind. ‘No one’s ever gone fast enough to really prove Einstein’s theories. I mean, I know they’ve done experiments with atomic clocks and things, but – well, it’s a bit different to breaking the light barrier, isn’t it?’

She put down her cup, shrugging. ‘I suppose it is. I’m not a scientist. But I’ve been forced to think about these things, and I know…I know it’s possible somehow.’

This took me by surprise. ‘That’s…uh…quite a statement.’ I gulped the last of my coffee as I tried to formulate a question. ‘Um…what makes you so sure?’

She looked at me for a second before shaking her head. ‘I don’t think I can explain it to you… at least not tonight.’

Suddenly I was reminded of the reason I had tried to engineer this meeting in the first place. I looked at her. She was sipping her coffee, already lost in some reverie. The full impact of that face hit me as if for the first time; that aggravating undefinable something about her that made me catch my breath and utterly banished all thoughts of sf debates.

But the reminder served to make me nervous again. Where could I take it from here? We’d been talking for barely fifteen minutes, so there was no reason to call a halt, but if she’d run up against something she preferred not to talk about…

She came to herself and gave me an apologetic look. ‘You must have better things to do with yourself than sit here. Thank you for listening, anyway. Perhaps we can have another chat sometime.’

‘I’ve got nowhere to go tonight. Even if you can’t talk about…about time travel, maybe we can try some other topic.’

‘Are you sure you’re not just being kind?’

‘When you get to know me you’ll realise I’m not a kind person. I don’t do anything unless there’s something in it for me.’

She half-smiled. ‘So what’s in this for you?’

I couldn’t quite get out the words ‘your company’. My head wobbled a little and eventually I fluttered a hand at the books. ‘Who else can I talk to about these?’

She leaned forward on her elbows. ‘Did I see you writing something last night? Is that what you want to be – a writer?’

I was distracted by the sight of her collar bones. She was still wearing her coat, but it was open, and her top shirt button was undone. For a moment all I could was stare; then my brain restarted and I threw out my standard reply. ‘I always think you can’t "want to be" a writer. You either are or you aren’t.’

‘I suppose that’s probably true.’ Her hand went to her shirt front and she tugged it up a little. Had she noticed the direction of my stare? ‘So – can I ask what you’re writing at the moment?’

I was watching her hand. The movement had seemed unconscious, but even unconsciously she might have been responding to signals from me. And that wasn’t the kind of response that boded well if I wanted make this something more than a forum for literary discussion.

‘Is that a difficult question to answer?’

I looked at her, open-mouthed. ‘Oh. No. Maybe I’m just a bit…embarrassed about it. I’m trying to plan an epic fantasy at the moment.’

‘Something like The Faerie Queene?’

‘Uh…more like Lord of the Rings.’

She nodded. ‘Oh, yes. But isn’t that a children’s book?’

‘It’s being read on a lot of campuses,’ I said quickly.

She saw she’d offended me. ‘Sorry,’ she smiled. ‘But…forgive me – is it a good idea to have something so consciously as a model? Aren’t you likely to end up just imitating it?’

I was getting scared now. She was actually listening to what I was saying, and responding intelligently. And I kept getting distracted by little things like the movement of her fingers, the faint lines around her mouth, the few stray hairs that had got caught over her coat collar. The totality of her was ridiculously intoxicating. There was something about the combination of her wholesome good looks, her manner and her interest in me that was making it very difficult to concentrate on what we were talking about.

‘It’s…difficult,’ I managed to mutter. ‘I like Lord of the Rings so much I just want there to be more of it. And I can’t really make more of it without duplicating the things about it that I like. I know I should do something fresh and original, and I will, but…’

She nodded. ‘Do you want some more coffee?’

I looked at my cup, although it was a moment before I was able to remember exactly what purpose it served. ‘Yes…why not?’ I started to get up, but she forestalled me with a raised hand. ‘I’ll get it.’ I fumbled for money, but she shook her head. ‘I’ll pay. It’s the least I can do after you’ve been kind enough to humour me.’

So I sat and watched her walk over to the counter, unable to formulate a coherent thought. The evening was turning into something I really hadn’t expected. What that something was I was having trouble defining, but I was enjoying myself. And I was still frightened. I knew now that I had been right about her; there was something that was haunting her, something she couldn’t easily talk about. It intrigued me, but I was slightly nervous; although she didn’t seem crazy, her behaviour had been a bit erratic. I couldn’t imagine what could be so difficult to explain that she balked at even making the attempt. All sorts of ridiculous possibilities were flying around in my head, but the only real clues I had were that it was something to do with her interest in sf, and that it might be bound up with the idea of time travel. Maybe she thought she’d found a way to go back in time, I pondered.

The thought made me smile; whatever was the matter with her, she wasn’t that crazy.

‘Something funny?’ She came back with two cups of coffee. She put one in front of me and lowered herself back into her seat. ‘Can’t you share the joke?’

‘I was thinking about time travel.’

‘The idea still amuses you?’ She was smiling herself; she seemed a good deal more relaxed now.

I shrugged. ‘You’ve heard my point of view. I’d sooner believe in God.’

She lifted her cup and gave me a level stare over it. ‘So you don’t?’

‘You do?’ I thought the emphasis and my tone was answer enough.

Her lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. ‘I once asked the wisest man I ever met about God,’ she said. ‘His response was rather unsatisfying to me at the time – I took it to mean that he didn’t think the question "Is there a God?" was really answerable in any terms we would understand.’ She looked away. ‘And yet, I remember that the conversation comforted me somehow – made me see that perhaps I’d been looking at things from a distorted perspective. That conversation haunts me – has done for some time now. I wish I could remember what he said…’

‘Who was he?’ I had an obscure fear that the name "Ian" would be thrown at me.

She laughed softly. ‘Who was he? I never found an answer to that question…not in two years…’

‘Where did you meet him?’ Somehow, obscurely, I had the feeling that this was important, that it would lead on to the things she couldn’t talk about.

She regarded me in silence for a moment. ‘Strangely enough, we met only a couple of miles from here. Totter’s Lane.’

‘Not much of a neighbourhood. What was he? What did he do?’

‘He was…’ she fell silent, looking very far away. ‘He was arrogant, irritable, impatient…and brilliant, kind, unknowable. He was a scientist and a traveller. He was…’ Suddenly she looked directly at me. ‘I suppose, being an atheist, you don’t believe in fate or destiny? The idea that things happen to a plan, for a reason? That we are shown certain things because…because we need to see them?’

I considered. Despite occasional odd coincidences, I suppose I felt I was in control of my life. But I didn’t want to offend her. ‘Let’s say I don’t see any evidence for it.’

‘No.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I think so often about that night, about all the things that could have prevented us going to Totter’s Lane, all the things that could have changed what happened – and then I wonder if anything could have changed it.’

For the moment I didn’t want to ask who "us" referred to. ‘We’re back on altering history again,’ I pointed out.

She smiled briefly, but her thoughts were elsewhere. ‘From the moment I was born, all through my life, through war evacuation and school and college, was I always heading towards that night? I might have gone to another school, or tried for more qualifications or even got married – and never gone to that junkyard.’

‘ "Junkyard"?’ I echoed, trying to will her to be a bit more forthcoming.

She came back to me, her eyes pleading with me to understand. ‘What’s the most important thing that’s ever happened to you?’

I tried to think. An exceptional evening with an exceptional girl came to mind, but apart from the fact that I didn’t want to raise the subject of sex just yet, I knew there must be something better. ‘I’d like to think, maybe…the discovery that I wanted to write.’

She nodded slowly. ‘I suppose that changed the way you looked at yourself and your future. But…imagine you were shown something that changed your view of the entire universe.’

‘That’s a difficult thing to imagine.’

She was silent, her face creasing in thought. ‘Well, suppose…suppose someone was able to prove to you that…that there was life on other planets?’ She looked at me, anxiously expectant.

‘How would they do that? We know there’s none in the solar system, and if there are any other planets they’re too far away t—’

‘Does the "how" matter?’ she snapped. Immediately she looked contrite. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that this is so difficult…you’re shown something that turns your whole belief system upside down, and then you’re expected to walk away from it, leave it behind as if it wasn’t real and just forget about the implications...’

‘Is someone threatening you?’

She seemed confused. ‘I’m…not sure what you mean…’

‘I mean, why do you have to ignore this…thing, whatever it is. Can’t you deal with the implications, face them?’

‘Not…on my own.’ Now she seemed to sag, as if the full realisation of what she was discussing had finally come home to her.

Which still left one of us very much in the dark. I leaned forward. ‘Look,’ I said softly, ‘obviously you’re very upset about something, but I can’t do anything to help you unless you can tell me a bit more about it.’

She lowered her head onto her hands. ‘I wish I could. I wish I could believe that you’d understand – that you’d believe me. But what I have to say is…I still remember my own reaction. It’s too far outside normal experience.’ She peered at me from behind a tangle of fingers. ‘You’d think I was insane.’

‘You don’t strike me as insane.’

She simply stared at me. I didn’t know what to do to break through to her, so I nudged her coffee cup. ‘C’mon – drink that before it ices over.’

She took the cup in both hands, staring down at it. It seemed an effort for her to raise it to her lips.

I tried again. ‘All right. Obviously this is difficult for you. You don’t really know me, so you can’t trust my reaction to whatever it is. But I have to tell you I’m intrigued. You talk about walking away and forgetting something – how am I supposed to forget this?’

Her head moved in the faintest of nods, which I took to be acknowledgement of my dilemma. Encouraged, I produced my solution. ‘So…if this is something you must tell someone, and it’s got to be someone you trust, why…w-why don’t we spend some more time together? I mean, just to get to know one another. We can go where you like, talk about anything – until maybe you feel you’re ready to share…this secret.’

Her expression was uncertain. ‘It’s very kind of you, but why would you do this for me..?’

‘I told you; I’m intrigued. If I left it at this, I’d always look back and wonder, wouldn’t I?’

She struggled to find words. ‘I’m not sure what to say. Suppose…I mean, do you have time to do this..?’

‘I can make time. Remember, I’m not a kind person. I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t want to.’ I wasn’t even sure now why I wanted to, except that the reasons were more numerous than they had been.

She was composing herself. ‘I suppose we could try it…if you really don’t mind…’

I nodded. ‘I think maybe we’ve had enough for this evening, but we’ll set another date. Maybe a film, or something, if that’s okay – so we don’t keep thinking about the reason we’re spending time together. Sound reasonable?’

She nodded.

‘Good.’ I gathered my books into a pile. ‘I’d better walk you to the tube.’

‘It’s all right…’

‘Look,’ I said, standing up, ‘if you get murdered before I find out what’s at the bottom of this, just because I didn’t walk with you to the station, how’m I going to feel?’

‘All right.’ She got to her feet.

I scooped up the books and came around the table. I was tempted to offer her an arm, mostly because of her obvious distress, but it seemed too soon.

As we walked towards the door it opened. I was brought back to the real world with a jolt by the sight of Dennis and Jimmy.

‘Con!’ Dennis looked as if he didn’t quite believe his eyes. ‘I thought that was you.’ He looked at Barbara and I could see him trying to figure out if we were together. ‘Hello, Miss Wright.’

‘I told you to call me Barbara.’ She was very cool, I thought, but then why shouldn’t she be? She might have her secrets, but she had no reason not to want to be seen with me.

‘Sorry…Barbara.’ Dennis evidently decided that even if we were together we could be separated. ‘What you doing now, Con?’

I glanced at Barbara. ‘I have to walk Barbara to the tube.’

‘Oh.’ He exchanged looks with Jimmy. ‘Um, well, want to come to the rehearsal after?’

I tried to look as if the choice was a difficult one. ‘I’m a bit tired. Think I’ll go home. Thanks, anyway.’

‘Okay. Uh…see you, then.’ He and Jimmy moved towards the counter.

‘Yeah. See you.’ I automatically put a hand out to shepherd Barbara to the exit, then withdrew it. She pulled her coat closed, seeming not to have noticed, and preceded me to the door. I’d’ve quite liked to have held it open for her, but I was too dazed by the unexpected encounter with Dennis.

Outside the December air was distinctly chilly. She looked at me again. ‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘I want to.’ It was about the most honest and straightforward thing I’d said all evening, and it felt good.

She nodded, then offered me her arm. ‘Unless you’d be embarrassed to be seen walking arm-in-arm with a member of another generation?’

‘How old are you?’

She laughed. ‘I can see I do have some things to teach you. Don’t you know that’s one of the things you never ask a lady…?’