Therapy

embrace her after that, or did I continue to spurn the offer of a single chaste goodnight kiss? I didn’t keep her last letter, and I can’t remember what she said exactly, but the words were pretty banal, I’m sure. They always were. It wasn’t anything she said, it was her presence that I remember: the swing of her hair, the shine in her eyes, the way she wrinkled up her nose when she smiled... I wish I had a photograph of her to hand. I used to carry a picture of her around in my wallet, a black-and-white holiday snap taken in Ireland when she was fifteen, leaning against a drystone wall, smiling and squinting into the sun, the breeze plastering her cotton skirt to her legs. The photo got creased and dogeared from constant handling, and after we split up I threw it away. I remember how easily it tore in my fingers, the paper having lost all its gloss and spring, and seeing the scattered fragments of her image at the bottom of the wastepaper basket. The only other photographs I have of her are in a shoebox somewhere in the loft at home in Hollywell, along with other juvenile souvenirs. There aren’t very many of them, because neither of us owned a camera in those days. There are a few snaps taken by other members of the youth club on rambles, and a group photo of the cast of the Nativity play. If I could be sure of picking a time when Sally is out, I’ve a good mind to drive up to Hollywell tomorrow and have a look for them.
     
    6.30 p. m. Shortly after I had typed that last sentence, and switched off the computer, and as I was rolling up my sleeves preparatory to starting on the washing-up, I had an idea: instead of searching my attic for photographs of Maureen, why not try to find Maureen herself? The more I think about it, and I’ve thought of little else all afternoon, the more I’m taken with it. It’s slightly scary, because I’ve no idea how she will react if I manage to trace her, but that’s what makes it exciting. I’ve no idea where she is, or what’s happened to her since we last met in the chemist’s shop in Hatchford. She could be living abroad, for all I know. Well, that’s no problem, I’d travel to New Zealand if necessary. She could be dead. I don’t think I could bear that, but I have to admit it’s possible. Cancer. A road accident. Any number of things. Somehow, though, I’m sure she’s still alive. Married, probably. Well, certainly, a girl like Maureen, how could she not be married? She married a doctor, I expect, like most good-looking nurses, and stayed married to him, being a devout Catholic. Unless she stopped believing, of course. It does happen. Or she might be widowed.
    Hey, I must be careful not to indulge in wishful fantasies here. She’s probably a very respectable, rather dull, happily married woman, stout and grey-haired, living in a comfortable suburban house with curtains that match the loose covers on the three-piece suite, mainly interested in her grandchildren, and looking forward to getting her OAP railpass so she can visit them more often. She probably hasn’t given me a thought for decades, and wouldn’t know me from Adam if I turned up on her doorstep. Nevertheless that’s what I’m going to do, turn up on her doorstep. If I can find it.
     
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    Monday 7th June. 4.30 p.m. Whew! I’m exhausted, drained, and my knee aches. I’ve been back to Hatchford today. Hatchford Mon Amour.
    I took the train from Charing Cross just after nine this morning. I was travelling against the rush hour, breasting waves of commuters with pallid Monday-morning faces who surged across the station concourse and swirled around the islanded Tie Rack, Knickerbox and Sockshop before being sucked down the plughole of the Underground. My train was almost empty for its return journey to the suburbs. Southern Electric the trains used to be called, Network Southeast they’re called now, but nothing essential has changed on this line, except that the graffiti on the inside of the carriages are more abundant and colourful nowadays, due to the development of the felt-tip pen. Vorsprung durch Technik. I took my seat in the second coach from the front because that’s the most convenient one for the exit at Hatchford, shuffled a clear space for my feet amid the litter on the floor, and inhaled the familiar smell of dust and hair-oil from the upholstery. A porter came down the platform, slamming the doors shut hard enough to make the teeth rattle