“My man…”

“Stared at the crossword, again, still couldn’t budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that Henry V did on St Crispin’s Day…”

“What?”

“I went into the breach again. I took,” said Arthur, “another biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met.”

“Like this?”

“Yes, well, no, not quite like that. But they met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you,” said Arthur, “that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table. At about this time.”

“I can imagine.”

“We went through the whole packet like this. Him, me, him, me …”

“The whole packet?”

“Well it was only eight biscuits but it seemed like a lifetime of biscuits we were getting through at this point. Gladiators could hardly have had a tougher time.”

“Gladiators,” said Fenchurch, “would have had to do it in the sun. More physically gruelling.”

“There is that. So. When the empty packet was lying dead between us the man at last got up, having done his worst, and left. I heaved a sigh of relief, of course. As it happened, my train was announced a moment or two later, so I finished my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper…”

“Yes?”

“Were my biscuits.”

“What?” said Fenchurch. “What?”

“True.”

“No!” She gasped and tossed herself back on the grass laughing.

She sat up again.

“You completely nitwit,” she hooted, “you almost completely and utterly foolish person.”

She pushed him backwards, rolled over him, kissed him and rolled off again. He was surprised at how light she was.

“Now you tell me a story.”

“I thought,” she said putting on a low husky voice, “that you were very keen to get back.”

“No hurry,” he said airily, “I want you to tell me a story.”

She looked out over the kale and pondered.

“All right,” she said, “it’s only a short one. And not funny like yours, but… Anyway.”

She looked down. Arthur could feel that it was one of those sorts of moments. The air seemed to stand still around them, waiting. Arthur wished that the air would go away and mind its own business.

“When I was a kid,” she said. “These sort of stories always start like this, don’t they, ‘When I was a kid…’ Anyway. This is the bit where the girl suddenly says, ‘When I was a kid’ and starts to unburden herself. We have got to that bit. When I was a kid I had this picture hanging over the foot of my bed… What do you think of it so far?”

“I like it. I think it’s moving well. You’re getting the bedroom interest in nice and early. We could probably do with some development with the picture.”

“It was one of those pictures that children are supposed to like,” she said, “but don’t. Full of endearing little animals doing endearing things, you know?”

“I know. I was plagued with them too. Rabbits in waistcoats.”

“Exactly. These rabbits were in fact on a raft, as were assorted rats and owls. There may even have been a reindeer.”

“On the raft.”

“On the raft. And a boy was sitting on the raft.”

“Among the rabbits in waistcoats and the owls and the reindeer.”

“Precisely there. A boy of the cheery gypsy ragamuffin variety.”

“Ugh.”

“The picture worried me, I must say. There was an otter swimming in front of the raft, and I used to lie awake at night worrying about this otter having to pull the raft, with all these wretched animals on it who shouldn’t even be on a raft, and the otter had such a thin tail to pull it with I thought it must hurt pulling it all the time. Worried me. Not badly, but just vaguely, all the time.

“Then one day – and remember I’d been looking at this picture every night for years – I suddenly noticed that the raft had a sail. Never seen it before. The otter was fine, he was just swimming along.”

She shrugged.

“Good story?” she said.

“Ends weakly,” said Arthur, “leaves the audience crying ‘Yes, but what of it?’ Fine up till there, but needs a final sting before the credits.”

Fenchurch laughed and hugged her legs.

“It was just such a sudden revelation, years of almost unnoticed worry just dropping away, like taking off heavy weights, like black and white becoming colour, like a dry stick suddenly being watered. The sudden shift of perspective that says ‘Put away your worries, the world is a good and perfect place. It is in fact very easy.’ You probably think I’m saying that because I’m going to say that I felt like that this afternoon or something, don’t you?”

“Well, I…” said Arthur, his composure suddenly shattered.

“Well, it’s all right,” she said, “I did. That’s exactly what I felt. But you see, I’ve felt that before, even stronger. Incredibly strongly. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a one,” she said gazing off into the distance, “for sudden startling revelations.”

Arthur was at sea, could hardly speak, and felt it wiser, therefore, for the moment not to try.

“It was very odd,” she said, much as one of the pursuing Egyptians might have said that the behaviour of the Red Sea when Moses waved his rod at it was a little on the strange side.

“Very odd,” she repeated, “for days before, the strangest feeling had been building in me, as if I was going to give birth. No, it wasn’t like that in fact, it was more as if I was being connected into something, bit by bit. No, not even that; it was as if the whole of the Earth, through me, was going to…”

“Does the number,” said Arthur gently, “forty-two mean anything to you at all?”

“What? No, what are you talking about?” exclaimed Fenchurch.

“Just a thought,” murmured Arthur.

“Arthur, I mean this, this is very real to me, this is serious.”

“I was being perfectly serious,” said Arthur. “It’s just the Universe I’m never quite sure about.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Tell me the rest of it,” he said. “Don’t worry if it sounds odd. Believe me, you are talking to someone who has seen a lot of stuff,” he added, “that is odd. And I don’t mean biscuits.”

She nodded, and seemed to believe him. Suddenly, she gripped his arm.

“It was so simple,” she said, “so wonderfully and extraordinarily simple, when it came.”

“What was it?” said Arthur quietly.

“Arthur, you see,” she said, “that’s what I no longer know. And the loss is unbearable. If I try to think back to it, it all goes flickery and jumpy, and if I try too hard, I get as far as the teacup and I just black out.”

“What?”

“Well, like your story,” she said, “the best bit happened in a café. I was sitting there, having a cup of tea. This was after days of this build up, the feeling of becoming connected up. I think I was buzzing gently. And there was some work going on at a building site opposite the café, and I was watching it through the window, over the rim of my teacup, which I always find is the nicest way of watching other people working. And suddenly, there it was in my mind, this message from somewhere. And it was so simple. It made such sense of everything. I just sat up and thought, ‘Oh! Oh, well that’s all right then.’ I was so startled I almost dropped my teacup, in fact I think I did drop it. Yes,” she added thoughtfully, “I’m sure I did. How much sense am I making?”

“It was fine up to the bit about the teacup.”

She shook her head, and shook it again, as if trying to clear it, which is what she was trying to do.

“Well that’s it,” she said. “Fine up to the bit about the teacup. That was the point at which it seemed to me quite literally as if the world exploded.”

“What…?”

“I know it sounds crazy, and everybody says it was hallucinations, but if that was hallucinations then I have hallucinations in big screen 3D with 16-track Dolby Stereo and should probably hire myself out to people who are bored with shark movies. It was as if the ground was literally ripped from under my feet, and… and…”