When we parted at the tube station we agreed to meet on Friday. She had no survey work and it was my day off, so I suggested we start earlier, perhaps walk around a bit and go to a film in the afternoon. She seemed happy enough with the arrangement; I wasn’t sure how I felt. Talk about dreams coming true…this wasn’t quite that, but it had the disconcerting feeling of having been pre-arranged. I remembered what she had said about fate, and shook off the thought immediately. I also recalled my decision not to be drawn into talking about my own writing – and found I didn’t care a bit.

I guess everyone’s familiar with that day after, let-the-world-do-what-it-likes feeling; you have an indestructible bedrock of goodwill and happiness, and the events of the day just don’t have the power to affect you. When I caught myself feeling like that during Wednesday I was almost embarrassed. What the hell was getting me so excited? There was an outside chance she was crazy, anyway – and it wasn’t as if, to put it crudely, she had the physical attributes to compensate. Well, not really. I did find the look of her very appealing but I couldn’t figure out why. After turning it over in my head for most of Wednesday I stopped trying to make sense of it.

If there was one major thing nagging at me it was the last-minute appearance of Dennis. I wasn’t sure why it should bother me so much, except that I could imagine the titters and looks if it got about that Barbara and I were an item. (I couldn’t decide whether I’d still mind as much if it became the truth.) I contemplated seeking out Dennis and trying to assess his reaction, but I thought that would alert him to the fact that I was concerned. He’d invited me to the group’s second rehearsal that week, on Thursday night; I decided it was worth going along simply to test the water.

Since Barbara now knew me as a writer, I thought I’d better make an effort. I sat down early Wednesday evening and looked at the notes I’d made for the fantasy novel. She was right, of course – it was ersatz-Tolkien. I had equivalents for the Elves, Dwarves, Black Riders – no hobbits, but then I was never into "cute". I brooded over the notes for an hour or so before pushing them away so I could brood over a blank desktop.

Resting on the corner of the desk was a little oblong of paper torn from a notebook . It contained Barbara’s phone number, which she had let me have in case there was some problem about Friday. I’d given her Mrs. Muller’s number but I didn’t expect a call. I felt strongly tempted to ring her, but I hadn’t actually got anything to say. I had told her I’d try to find out what films were playing, but Mr. Stephenson had been in during the day and I hadn’t wanted to go leafing through Time Out in his presence. I wondered what kind of films she’d like; she was intelligent, sure, but she also seemed a bit old-fashioned. Maybe something like Far From The Madding Crowd would be a safe bet; I had no objection to a couple of hours of Julie Christie. But European films might be out, depending on the subject matter. Belle de Jour would be a bit risky. I should have checked the film listings just before I left work, I realised. Still, there was tomorrow.

I couldn’t summon the mental energy to make anything out of my notes for the novel, and I had nothing else to work on. I couldn’t face the thought of the TV. I couldn’t ring Barbara without a good reason. Eventually I curled up on my bed with Ritual In The Dark, and read it until my eyes had had enough. Before I put out the light I noticed the Dick novel and I wondered if I should be reading that instead, if she knew it. But I knew now that her interest in sf wasn’t primarily literary. Along with so many other things about her, I hadn’t quite worked out what it was.

I had told Dennis once before that he was carrying the rest of the group. It was slightly less true now; they’d sacked their hopeless rhythm guitarist since I’d said that, and Jimmy had improved. But as I came down the stairs to Jimmy’s dad’s basement, the bass-playing was still the thing that stuck out. They were into the opening bars of ‘Like a Rolling Stone’; I sighed self-consciously. I’d told them not to attempt it because Brian wasn’t up to it.

But I got a surprise. A slightly flat but quite powerful female voice started singing the opening lines:

Once upon a time

I hurried down the last few steps. Dennis threw me a sly look as he watched me take in their newest member. Brian was gone and in his place stood a slender figure dressed entirely in black. She didn’t see me, as her eyes were screwed closed and she was clearly putting everything into her vocals. I rather liked what I saw. Her face was a little long and narrow to be described as pretty, but it had strength in it and her monochrome wardrobe made quite a statement. She was a definite improvement on Brian. I didn’t want to, but I looked back at Dennis, who raised his eyebrows with a smile.

Rolling Stone came to a fairly abrupt halt. Jimmy lost his way, and Dave’s keyboards had been struggling to keep up since they started. In deference to my presence they didn’t restart immediately; Rob, the lead guitarist, hopped over to Dave and started to show him how he thought it should be played. Dennis came forward and took in me and the new girl with a sweep of his arm. ‘This is Conrad. Conrad, Caro.’ In explanation he added: ‘Brian got that job in Slough – he’s off to look for digs, and he won’t be able to get over here often enough.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘it looks like he’s been more than adequately replaced.’

She smiled, but she wasn’t stupid. ‘Don’t you mean "sounds like"?’

She had me on that one. I half-shrugged. ‘Brian would’ve been lost trying to do Dylan – from what I heard you should cope nicely.’

She accepted the compliment with a slight nod. She had unusually light blue eyes, with looked very striking set against her pale face and slightly lank black hair. I could sense myself getting very interested and I had to remind myself of the reason I was there.

Dave was lighting a cigarette and Caro went over to cadge one. Dennis came up to me. ‘Better than Brian, eh?’ he said in an undertone.

‘In every department,’ I agreed. ‘where did you find her?’

‘Advertised as soon as we knew Brian was going. No one else was even half as good. You two should get on; she’s crazy about that Velvets album. But,’ he suddenly grinned, ‘I was forgetting, you’ve already got yourself a girlfriend, haven’t you? Miss Prim.’

‘That’s not funny, Dennis.’

‘Who’s joking? So, does her underwear look like something left over from the war?’

I gave him an expression which let him know his wit was not appreciated. ‘Anyway, I thought you were after Sally Willmott.’

‘At least she’s still in her twenties.’ He suddenly looked serious. ‘What were you two talking about, then – you and Barbara?’

‘If you must know she’s into science fiction. She saw my books the other night and we got talking. She’s read more than I have.’

‘Doesn’t look the type.’

‘I seem to remember saying the same thing to you,’ I shrugged. Caro was coming back to her mike and I nudged Dennis. ‘Looks like you’re back in business.’

I usually left about halfway through their rehearsals, but I decided to stick this one out. It was worth it; Caro was a real find, although it took more than black hair to conceal the fact she was modelling herself on Nico. It did sound slightly odd to hear her singing lyrics that were meant for blokes, but she handled it well. I wondered whether they had shown her any of the stuff I had written. Given the actual un-likelihood of Barbara becoming anything more than an interesting companion for conversation, Caro looked like the best prospect to come along for quite a while. Dennis told me she had only just moved into London, having dropped out of an art course in Maidstone. Kent was too boring for her, apparently. I decided not to overdo my enthusiasm for this first meeting – I had to save some energy for Barbara, after all – so I contented myself with congratulating Caro at the end and leaving fairly quickly. For one thing, I didn’t trust myself not to offer to walk her home.

After a look through Time Out I decided to try a revival showing of Paths of Glory on Barbara. It was a film I could certainly stand seeing again, and I thought it would suit her apparently serious nature. But that was set for the afternoon. We had arranged to meet at eleven just outside Hyde Park Corner tube station and take a stroll around the park. I’d found a little cinema just off Edgware Road that was showing Paths at three-thirty. I did wonder whether our conversation might dry up before four-and-a-half hours were spent, but she didn’t query the schedule when I rang her on Thursday evening.

It was odd, speaking to her again after two days. Suddenly she seemed a complete stranger, and again I wondered what I had got myself into. After our short phone conversation I went to my room and tried to imagine all the possible paths the relationship might take. None of them seemed terrible enough to call the whole thing off – though I did wonder whether she might be sitting in her flat thinking along similar lines. Somehow, it seemed unlikely; she had asked me again whether I really had the time to do this, and she still seemed rather grateful for my supposed generosity. Possibly it had never entered her mind that I might have ulterior motives.

I wondered about her romantic history. Clearly she was alone now, and something about her told me she wasn’t particularly experienced – but there was this "Ian" character to contend with. Where did he fit in? From the conversation she and Sally had been having, Ian was obviously bound up with the things she had such trouble discussing, but how? Was he this "wise" man she had referred to? That didn’t seem to fit. But Sally had mentioned an elopement. I was absolutely certain Barbara wasn’t married, and yet… I resolved to get at least a few of the question marks erased during the afternoon. I didn’t want to push her, but she was going to have to stop talking in riddles.

I was nervous again riding the tube to Hyde Park, but the feeling was manageable. I was able to concentrate enough to read some more of Ritual. I had an illogical fear that I might run into someone I knew; the odds were very much against it but I had prepared a line about book-hunting for research, just in case.

She was waiting for me when I came out of the station, and I was still a few minutes early. As soon as we were face to face she said: ‘I was almost wishing you wouldn’t come. I’m not so sure this is a good idea.’

‘Oh?’

She looked away from me. ‘It’s difficult to explain…’

‘That seems to be the keynote of your life.’ I realised I sounded impatient and stepped closer to her. ‘Look, it’s mild and clear. We’re just going for a stroll around the park, then we’ll have a cup of tea and some lunch, then maybe see a good film. What’s so complicated about that?’

She looked at me now. ‘Nothing, of course. But…I know you hope that I’ll tell you about… about my life, about the things that have made me ask such odd questions. I…I don’t know if that’s possible. I don’t know if I can do it – ever.’

‘Can I suggest you stop worrying about it and just see what happens? Take it as it comes.’

Her eyes held mine. ‘A friend once told me he took life as it came. Then something happened to both of us which completely threw him off-balance, something he couldn’t just "take". Believe me, there are things which are true that you will nevertheless find impossible to accept.’

‘Right now I find it impossible to accept that we’ve both come all this way for nothing.’

She smiled slightly. ‘If you knew a little more, you’d understand why this is so difficult. But perhaps you’re right. Now isn’t the time to worry about it.’

She turned towards the park. I came to stand by her side. As we crossed the road I reflected that we had been very lucky with the weather; I enjoy walking about when the air has a bit of a bite in it, but it hadn’t occurred to me that she might not. I wasn’t used to planning trips with other people in mind.

This was actually the first time I’d been in the park. I’d suggested it because I thought she might feel more at ease in the open, less pressured to make conversation. I looked around as we entered and was pleased to see only one or two other people. I guessed that everyone else was in Oxford Street preparing for Christmas.

That thought suggested a fairly neutral question I could throw at her. ‘Do you have any plans for Christmas? Do you usually visit family or something?’

‘My father’s dead…he died…’ she seemed to have trouble with the words, ‘in 1964. But I do see my mother, sometimes.’ She seemed then to remember the question. ‘I suppose I will go to her for the holiday.’ She was lost in thought again for a moment, then recalled herself once more. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ll pop over to see my parents, but I prefer to stay around here. I like it during the holidays; in some ways it’s quieter because all my friends spend time with their families.’

‘But a lot of your friends – the ones we’re interviewing – still seem to live at home. There aren’t many people in this area who’ve come from other regions.’

‘No, but Christmas still means sitting round the telly with your family, for most of them. It’s either that or go and get drunk; that doesn’t appeal to me.’

‘Oh? Why is that? I mean, I agree, but…’

I considered. ‘I’m not sure. It just never has seemed like a good idea. Maybe it’s the thought of my father and his brandy and whiskey chums – or maybe I just like to stay in control of myself.’

‘It’s important to have a clear head,’ she agreed quietly.

We were coming up beside the water; I remembered the lake had a name but it escaped me for the moment.

‘They used to have duels here,’ Barbara said suddenly. ‘During the eighteenth century.’ She looked across the water. ‘And someone once drove a carriage across the frozen Serpentine for a bet.’

‘Still a history teacher at heart,’ I commented. And that brought another oddity to mind. ‘How come you stopped doing that? Survey work isn’t that well paid; I’d’ve thought…’

I stopped speaking as I noticed the expression on her face. Without any warning, she seemed suddenly close to tears. I resisted the urge to put my hands on her shoulders. ‘What’s the matter?’

She made a visible effort to master herself, then looked at me. ‘I can’t go back to teaching. There’s…a blot on my record.’

‘Can I…can I ask what kind of blot?’

She let out a heavy breath. ‘An unexplained absence of nearly two years. An unexplainable absence.’ She went on with an effort: ‘I tried to get any teaching job – temporary, part-time, relief…but no one was willing to risk employing me. I suppose they thought I might be unreliable in other ways… or even a little unstable. I can’t blame them. They have to protect the children, after all. They represent our future, and they can only deal with life if they’re properly prepared. There’s nothing more precious than knowledge – nothing more important than education. We…we have to be able to cope with whatever the universe might have in store for us…’

She fell silent. I was reluctant to speak, fearing to interrupt her train of thought. I felt that despite herself she was beginning to let her guard down. Whatever secret she was carrying was clearly crying for release.

She turned her eyes to me. ‘If only I could make them see that our present knowledge of the universe is hopelessly limited. We’re not ready, we’re not nearly ready for any of it…’

‘Uh…any of what?’ Her words sounded slightly crazy, but there was no madness in her eyes; she was simply desperately distressed. I succumbed to an instinct and put my hand on her arm. ‘Let’s sit down and have a cup of tea.’

‘Are you trying to humour me?’

I faced the suspicion in her eyes with all the candour I could muster. ‘No. But it’s obvious you’re upset. Sitting down won’t do you any harm…and maybe we can find a less difficult subject for conversation.’

I looked around, but she tugged on my sleeve and pointed. ‘The refreshments place is over there, although I’m not sure if they’re open this early during the winter.’

‘I should think they get enough custom from Speaker’s Corner to make it worth their while,’ I said blithely. ‘C’mon.’ And this time it seemed natural to take her arm. She didn’t resist, or comment. We walked up the path in silence, until she said softly:

‘I wonder if you should speak to Ian.’

‘ "Ian"?’ I said as carelessly as I could.

‘He’s a…a friend. The only other person who went through what I did. Perhaps if he sees you’re willing to listen, he might talk about it. Together we might convince you…’

It occurred to me to ask what good convincing me would do. I wasn’t in a position to help anyone, except by listening. Then it occurred to me to wonder if what she told me might really change my life.

That led me on to another question. I wasn’t sure if it was a safe subject, but I decided to risk it anyway. ‘Can I ask…why did you speak to me, the other night? I mean, what made you suggest that we meet again, to talk about the books?’ She was silent, so I went on: ‘I must seem like a bit of kid to you, and I was a complete stranger. Were you…were you really that desperate to talk to someone? What about the other girl – Sally? Don’t you talk to her?’

‘Not about…there are some things she could never understand. Your books indicated that you were open to other possibilities, at least.’

‘But,’ I ventured, ‘it wasn’t actually the books you wanted to talk about.’

‘No. As I said, I don’t really like much science fiction.’

We had reached the Refreshment Lodge. It was open and I pushed at the door and allowed her to precede me. She smiled as if this was an unexpected piece of gallantry. The place was deserted except for one rather despondent-looking girl behind the counter. We found a table next to one of the windows, and sat down. The girl came up to us, and I looked at Barbara enquiringly. ‘What’ll you have? My treat this time.’ I’d stopped into the shop on my way to the station and picked up my week’s wages.

‘Just tea, thank you.’

I nodded at the girl. ‘Two teas.’

As the girl walked away I looked at Barbara. ‘But…despite your dislike of sf, for some reason some of the ideas in it have become important to you.’

‘I suppose you could put it like that.’

I spread my hands. ‘So how would you put it?’

She was silent for a few seconds. ‘I thought the idea was that we should get to know one another before we discussed anything of this sort.’

I grimaced. ‘Sorry. I started by wondering why you’d decided to talk to me. I didn’t intend for it to lead to…taboo subjects.’

‘I suppose it will always come back to that….eventually.’ She shifted in her chair, looking out across the park. ‘Perhaps I’m being stupid. It may be that there’s nothing, no amount of shared conversation, that will prepare you for what I have to tell you.’ She turned her eyes back to mine. ‘Perhaps I should just…say it.’

I shrugged, but I felt my heart thump. ‘Maybe you should.’

The girl came back with the tea. Barbara looked somewhat grateful for the interruption; she took hold of her cup and gripped it tightly with both hands, looking into the liquid as if it contained her salvation.

‘Sorry,’ I said again. ‘I don’t want you to feel under pressure. It doesn’t matter. Do whatever you want.’

She lifted her eyes, then looked again at the park. ‘It is difficult. Even to me it hardly seems real now...when I look at that scene and compare it with...with...’ She shook her head. ‘You couldn’t possibly accept what I can tell you.’

This was getting distinctly aggravating. ‘Why not just trust me? You could tell me and I promise not to make any judgements one way or the other.’ I leaned forward. ‘Look, I mean it when I say you can take your time. But I can also see that this thing is gonna nag at both of us until you’ve at least made things a bit clearer.’ I lowered my voice. ‘I’ll just listen. I may be young, but I’m not particularly fragile; I doubt you can shock me. I mean it’s not as if you’re going to tell me you’ve met creatures from another planet.’

She looked at me helplessly. I felt an odd sort of flush creep over me. For a few seconds neither of us said anything.

I felt sure I had misunderstood her silence; I thought I’d better clear things up quickly. ‘What did I say? Don’t worry, I don’t believe you’d be crazy enough…’ I stopped, now quite sure I knew exactly what her silence meant.

She raised her tea and took a sip. Her hands trembled slightly but her face was composed when she lowered the cup.

‘Well,’ she said softly, ‘do you want to hear the whole story?’

We never got to see the film. I asked her a lot of questions and she told me a lot of things, disjointed, crazy things that seemed completely at odds with her gentle, humane eyes and her clear, sensible voice. I couldn’t believe her; I was sure she believed what she was telling me, but I couldn’t assimilate all the stuff she was giving me. There was too much detail and no sense of continuity. After fours hours I told her that this wouldn’t work.

‘You don’t believe me.’

I looked at her. I honestly couldn’t decide. She was so clearly sane, and the things she was telling me were so obviously crazy, that I couldn’t make the connection. ‘It…it’s not that, exactly. I think that…I need – what I want is for you to tell me what happened to you. From the beginning. In every detail.’

‘Now?’

I looked at my watch. ‘Uhh…well, I suppose we should get something to eat.’ The words sounded strange, as if they had no place in the conversation now.

‘But you want to continue this…?’

‘D’you want to keep talking?’

She was silent for a moment. ‘Yes. I have to let it out to someone.’ She paused. ‘You…could come to my flat. I could make dinner…supper…or something.’

And if she was crazy, I asked myself, what might happen? But I knew, somehow, that she wasn’t dangerous. I nodded. ‘Okay. Sounds like a good idea.’

I felt a curious unreality about everything as we walked out of the park. I looked at the woman beside me; my initial thoughts about her, fantasies about romance, seemed very distant now. She looked at me and smiled tentatively; I found it impossible to smile back.