The Big Frog Theory - 15

THIRTY ONE

After a brief debate, they decided to have coffee anyway. While Samuel prepared it and opened a packet of biscuits (chocolate cookies he said he had been “saving”) Neville returned the “Croak” guide to the drawer. Back in his seat and with the bus parked in the Cathedral square, he was once again able to cast his eyes over the building that, as a child, he seemed to have visited almost every weekend.

However, he was certain his memory was inaccurate and that, as he had been so young at the time, events associated with the cathedral — which were never particularly pleasurable to him — had spawned a legend of almost weekly torture. As the bus filled with the rich aroma of fresh coffee (Samuel obviously in an expansive, non-instant mood) Neville was able to consider the external architecture of the building with fresh eyes. The negative sensation from his childhood amused him, and he found himself intrigued rather than daunted by his notion of the place.

‘Intrigued?’

Samuel had come in on the end of his thoughts and was obviously interested in the line of thinking he had been taking.

‘Perhaps that isn’t the right word, I don’t know. But the fear has gone.’ Neville smiled. ‘I used to hate this place, just coming here. For a while we lived quite nearby — in Twyford, by the river — and my Aunt would insist on visiting regularly, normally on Saturdays when we came to town to shop. Even though she may have only been enduring these trips for me, I suppose I was too young to protest.’

‘Or to know why you hated it?’

‘Well, it wasn’t the Cathedral I hated; it was most likely the being dragged around, lacking the freedom to do what I wanted.’

‘To stay at home and play with your model cars?’

Neville laughed.

‘Something like that!’

Samuel placed a mug of coffee and a small plate of biscuits in front of him.

‘And intrigue?’ he said, as he resumed his own seat and began to munch on a cookie.

‘Interest; a lack of understanding, maybe. About what it stands for — the church, I mean. Church in the “big”, general sense. Why is it here, the cathedral? What made — and makes — men build things like this?’

‘Is it something you don’t understand?’

‘Something I don’t think I comprehend, rather than fail to understand. Is there a difference?’

The square was quiet. Two old ladies left the Cathedral, walking arm-in-arm away towards the shopping centre. It was mid-week, mid-day, and the weather had encouraged the tourists to stay at home. Against the dull sky, the building — still impressive as a structure — seemed to blend its greyness with the day itself. Neville looked for a spiritual beauty and seemed to find none.

‘Why now, Sir — if you don’t mind me asking.’

‘Now what, Samuel?’

‘Why Winchester Cathedral now? Is there any reason for you to be here?’

Neville, still looking at the building and its square, tried to locate some kind of context for it.

‘I don’t know. As we were passing, I thought it might be nice to see it again; to lay an old ghost to rest, if you like. And you said something about faith, too; do you remember? Perhaps there is a question there I need to answer.’

‘About what, Sir; Christianity?’

Neville laughed gently.

‘No, Samuel, I don’t think so. My Aunt managed to put me off that very early on — not that she was particularly devout or tried to force it on me. Not that I remember anyway. I guess I saw her give a lot to her faith and receive nothing in return. Not as a child, anyway. So it has never appealed; nothing has, really.’

‘And now?’

‘And now I’m not sure if that’s right. Or if it is right — right for me that is — whether or not I understand why that is. Do you see?’

There was silence as the two men drank coffee, a silence broken only by the occasional crunch of a biscuit or the “clink” of mug on saucer. Neville, having finished first, rose from his chair.

‘Are you coming, Samuel?’

Samuel smiled.

‘I don’t think so, Sir. I need to get one or two provisions. I thought it might be nice to have a bit of a picnic at Epsom, so I really ought to go and get the things we will need. So you go ahead. I will probably be back here before you, anyway.’

Neville imagined that Samuel could — if he put his mind to it — probably acquire all the things he needed without even leaving the comfort of the bus. In any event, having made the offer, he was quite pleased that Samuel had declined as he fancied seeing the place on his own. Returning to his compartment, he buttoned up his cardigan and pulled his overcoat from the cupboard. Momentarily he toyed with the notion of wearing the flying jacket, but this seemed somehow inappropriate with a visit so far removed from any idea of “action”.

As soon as he had left the warmth of the coach, the wind — which was certainly stronger than it had initially appeared to be — bit hard into him, even through the fabric of his coat. In the grey sky, lumps of dense and threatening cloud chased each other in their hurry to get somewhere else and soak someone. It did not seem like early June, and Neville — as he walked across the green — hoped that the weather would be kinder at Epsom.

He paused in the entrance vestibule and scanned the notices, including one for a local bell-ringing group, another proclaiming the advent of a Bring-and-Buy sale in Twyford in aid of the village school, and — largest of all — the rather imposing sign which requested (in a vaguely threatening way) that visitors make a donation to Cathedral funds. Religion with menaces. Perhaps there was nothing new in that, but he was sure — all those years ago — entrance used to be free.

‘But it still is free,’ said a deep voice, surrounding him with a kind of quiet echo: ‘free, free, free...’

Neville looked around and could see no-one. He checked the walls and the ceiling, but could find no source for the voice. Undaunted by something which might have struck terror into those instantly interpreting it as God, he pushed open the semi-glazed entrance door and walked into the cathedral proper.

His first footfall gave off a quiet echo of its own, and once inside he stood still for a moment. There was no other sound. He could see the small gift shop was closed, and guessed from the absence of any other sound (except perhaps the occasional whistle from the wind outside) that he pretty much had the place to himself. They had always walked the Cathedral the same way when he had been young, and now — habit still strong even after all these years — he began the same anti-clockwise rotation.

He had not gone far — past the first few stained glass windows — when he became aware that he was being watched. He paused by a memorial stone to an early Bishop of Winchester, stared up at one of the windows, and waited to see if the sensation would pass. It did not. Indeed, he now felt the feeling augmented by a sound which he could only identify as slow but deep breathing.

‘Well, it has been a long time, time, time…’

It was the same deep voice, only now coming from behind him and within the body of the building. Neville turned expecting to find that he was being addressed by a member of the clergy or a parish warden, or even the old pensioner he recalled and who used to arrange the flowers; but the Cathedral was empty.

‘Here, here, here…’ said the voice, the same slow echo bouncing off the pillars and pews.

A little over twelve feet from him was a monument to the crusades. On a stone plinth, was the figure of a Knight, one hand holding his sword, shield on his chest, dog at his feet; his other hand was usually clasped in that of his Lady who lay at his side — except that the Knight was sitting half-upright, leaning on his right arm, and looking directly at Neville.

‘I saw you come in, in, in... You haven’t been here for a while, have you, you, you..?’

Neville took a pace or two forwards then stopped. The Knight slowly swung his legs over the side of the plinth, the movement of stone on stone making a deliberate grinding sound. Lowering himself to the ground, the floor seemed to shake as he made contact with it, and Neville looked round involuntarily to see if the noise had roused anyone.

The Knight left his shield and the dog to guard his place and took two solid, heavy steps towards Neville.

‘Shall we walk, walk, walk..?’ There was the echo again, now accompanied by breathing and the rather powerful sound of flexing stone.

‘Do you remember everyone?’

‘No, no, no…’ said the Knight, ‘but more than people might imagine, imagine, imagine... After all, what else is there to do all day when you are lying there but look at people passing, passing, passing..?’

‘And you remember me?’

They had started walking, still anti-clockwise and still slowly, their progress accompanied but the sound of the Knight’s stiff movements across the stone floor.

‘Yes, yes, yes... Of course I remember someone who I saw week after week, week, week... That was your mother who brought you, you, you..?’

‘My Aunt. We lived nearby, in Twyford.’

The Knight looked puzzled.

‘That is not a name I know, know, know...’

Neville chose not to elaborate; after all, it was quite likely that the Knight would be unfamiliar with many modern place-names — and it was not a subject about which he knew enough to do justice. He returned to his previous theme.

‘But I was only small then; and it was probably thirty years ago. How could you recognise me now?’

‘Because I expected to see you again, again, again... Because I have come to recognise those who will once more cross my path at some stage in their own future, future, future...’

‘So all those years ago, you knew that one day I would come back here?’

‘Not one day, but this day, day, day... And I have been waiting — as I wait for all others — for you, you, you...’

They had walked nearly the length of the Cathedral and had reached the entrance to the crypt. Often, Neville had used to try and persuade his Aunt to let him go down into the crypt; more often than not she had refused. Neville paused, but the Knight continued in his slow pace, giving the impression that if he stopped once he would not be able to move again.

‘You go down, if you want to, to, to... You can always catch me up, up, up...’

Neville thought for a moment, then decided to give the crypt a miss. He joined the Knight at his side.

‘How do you find this, being’ — Neville hesitated, thinking about using the word “stuck” but then deciding against it — ‘being here after your exploits in the wars?’

‘Wars, wars, wars..?’

The Knight’s granite face showed little expression. Neville looked at it, trying to find some degree of humanity in it, but there was none. Yes, it was a benevolent face and not that of a cruel man, but the Knight had lost all power of expression except that carried in the resonance of his stony voice. Just now he seemed a little displeased.

‘We were on a righteous and glorious crusade, crusade, crusade... We were fighting for God, God, God...’

All the candles throughout the Cathedral suddenly burst into flame ignited by the power that seemed to underpin the Knight’s last words. He was, however, unfazed. If recent experiences had taught him anything it was not to be surprised — and also that the Knight, whatever his own motivations or desires, was undoubtedly there for a specific purpose in relation to his own quest.

‘But only your view of God, surely. Were you not fighting to impose your God on another race?’

‘We were right, and we were chosen, chosen, chosen...’ The Knight’s right hand tightened its grip on his sword.

‘But a lot of people died, didn’t they?’

The Knight paused. His words, when they came, were filled with sorrow and grief.

‘Yes, a great many died, died, died...’

‘And for what? Things have moved on now.’

‘Did we not win, win, win..? Were we not victorious, victorious, victorious..?’

And then it occurred to Neville that the Knight might have died during the Crusades and returned home a dead and unfulfilled man; that the sorrow he had just sensed was in part the emotion of a man grieving for himself.

‘They have God there now, and they are a civilised people.’

‘But the God they have is not our Master, Master, Master..?’

‘Who can say?’

There was a brief pause. The Knight, with his hand once again relaxed at his side, moved slowly on. They had reached the far end of the Cathedral and were walking behind the altarpiece. As they did so, the Knight turned his heavy head and looked directly at Neville.

‘And what of you, you, you?’

‘Me?’

‘You are embarked upon your own crusade, are you not, not, not..? That is why you are here, today, as God has willed it, it, it...’

Neville wondered about the Knight’s assertion that he was expected to be here, and on this day too. How much of this was down to the Knight’s blind faith and ignorance of the twentieth century calendar?

‘I don’t know about God’s will, but I suppose you could say that I’m on a crusade of sorts.’

‘Ah, Ah, Ah...’

‘But it’s no holy war; not in my case.’

‘Then you are seeking the Holy Grail, Grail, Grail..?’

The laugh escaped before Neville could stop it, and although he tried desperately to cut it short, it reverberated uneasily about the building. He sensed the Knight stiffen — if such a thing were possible — and saw his hand return to his sword once again.

‘I’m sorry; forgive me.’

The Knight said nothing, and Neville tried to remember that he was walking with someone whose myths and legends were centuries older than this own and untainted by decades of discovery, cynicism, and counter-truth.

‘Yes. Yes, you’re right; I suppose you could say that I am searching for a Holy Grail of sorts.’

‘For what do you search, search, search..?’

Neville paused. When it came, the answer was blissfully simple.

‘For myself.’

The Knight lifted his left hand. Slowly it rose, the stone complaining with the stress of movement, until it hung a little above Neville’s head. Then, equally slowly, it began to descend until it was suddenly at rest on Neville’s shoulder. It landed lightly, more as a feather than a ton weight. The Knight nodded.

‘And God, God, God..?’

‘God?’

‘Have you come here to find Him, Him, Him..? Or to ask for His help on your quest, quest, quest..?’

Neville now wondered exactly why he had come here. Was there more to his decision than simply “looking up old friends”, or because it was on the way to somewhere else? How much had Samuel’s words influenced him, or was he looking for inspiration, for motivation?

‘To be honest, I don’t think I have come to find God or to get His help. I think I need to find myself first. Perhaps God comes later.’

‘Then in what do you have faith, faith, faith..? In what do you believe, believe, believe..?’

‘I think I need to believe in myself.’

They had reached the end of the Cathedral and were now only a few yards from the entrance. The Knight had removed his hand from Neville’s shoulder and was looking up and along the nave to the altar. Slowly he crossed himself. Neville sensed that the interview was over.

‘Now I must rest, rest…’ said the Knight, the echo now weary and faltering.

‘I may be back again,’ Neville suggested, hopefully.

‘I wish you well on your quest, quest... May you prosper, prosper...’ And with that the Knight turned away from him and walked slowly back to his plinth.

For elsewhere in the Cathedral, Neville heard the sound of a door closing and then footsteps; sharp, quick, human footsteps. He looked towards the altar but could see no-one. Then there was the sound of another door, more muffled footsteps, then — for a moment — silence. Gradually, almost without beginning, the sound of the organ began to fill the Cathedral. Its notes were quiet and mellow, all-pervading and peaceful. Neville looked back to the plinth. The Knight was at rest again, his dog at his feet, and once again clasping his Lady’s hand.

THIRTY TWO

Samuel was standing in the galley unloading two carrier bags of shopping when Neville returned to the bus. After the Knight had resumed his silent vigil on the plinth alongside his Lady, Neville had decided on another turn around the Cathedral though this time accompanied only by the sound of the organ.

Gaining the exit, Neville found the gift shop was open and a man busy inside. He decided to pop in for a quick look before returning to the bus. An elderly couple entering the Cathedral nodded in his direction as they passed him. The gift shop was, much like the fabric of the place itself, little changed from his memory of it; the range of goods for sale was the same — bookmarks, postcards, miniature imitation stained glass windows — though each was of a higher quality than twenty-odd years before.

He had been uncertain as to his ground when he decided on the purchase of a small memento to remind him of his visit; uncertain because the rules might not permit him such temporal fancies. Still, he argued to himself, he had his suit and his flying jacket; were they not some form of inheritance? Thus, when Neville emerged out into the square, he began walking towards the bus with a small brass effigy of a Knight of the Crusades resting in the pocket of his overcoat.

‘A bit nippy out there, isn’t it Sir?’ said Samuel looking up from his bags.

‘I can’t say I noticed it.’

‘Ah, well, perhaps that augurs well for Epsom then.’

Neville left Samuel with his bags and went to his cupboard to hang up his coat. As he did so, he noticed the hangers that had held both his suit and flying jacket were now empty.

‘Samuel.’

After a brief pause, the older man joined him.

‘What is it, Sir?’

‘My suit; it’s gone. And the flying jacket.’

‘Oh, yes. I meant to tell you. I thought your suit was looking a bit grubby — probably all that rushing around on the boat, I should imagine — so I thought I’d have it cleaned for you. And, while I was at the cupboard, I thought you might as well have the jacket tidied up as well.’

‘I see. But there were things in...’

‘In the pockets? Yes, Sir; I removed them. They’re safe and sound.’

‘Fine.’

‘Would you like some tea?’ Samuel had already turned and was on his way back to the galley. ‘I was going to pop the kettle on once I’d put the shopping away.’

‘Thanks, yes.’

He wondered where to put the small replica of the Knight. Would it make sense to hide it away somewhere, just in case? He looked about then quickly came to the conclusion that, apart from beneath the mattress or under his pillow, there were no suitable hiding places. Perhaps it would be best left where it was; the overcoat was clean enough, and Samuel would be unlikely to make another trip to a dry cleaners in the immediate future.

‘Has it changed, Sir? The Cathedral, I mean.’ This when Neville re-joined Samuel in the galley.

‘Changed? No, I don’t think so. Not structurally anyway!’

Neville’s small joke went unrewarded. Samuel, busying himself over the tea pot, continued with what appeared to be a predetermined line of enquiry.

‘Same old faces, I suppose?’

‘Sorry?’ Neville thought of the Knight; surely not the face Samuel was referring to.

‘You tend to get people working in places like churches and Cathedrals for years. Often until they are past working. You know, Sir; the little old lady who tends the flowers, or the old chap who sorts out the Bibles. That sort of thing.’ He looked up, awaiting a reply. Neville thought of “the Old Boy who drives the bus”, and wondered again just how long Samuel had been doing what he was doing.

‘There was a chap in the Gift Shop. I didn’t pay much attention to him, but I guess he could have been an “Old Timer”.’

The lie hung limply in the air, and for a moment Neville imagined Samuel might simply swat it away and crush it against the wall. But he said nothing, merely nodded and began to pour the tea. Neville wondered why he had bothered to avoid the truth, especially as Samuel could just read his thoughts anyway. The Knight was no more fanciful than Mister Bossiman or “Bob”, and yet he felt the desire to keep a hold of him, to retain the secrecy of their exchange and the privacy of his own response.

‘We’ll go for’ard, shall we, Sir?’ Samuel, mugs of tea in hand, offered the suggestion using misplaced nautical vernacular. He nodded too, offering his beguiling smile. Neville wondered if he might patent it — “Samuel’s Soother”, he could call it — and sell it to old Grandfathers and Great Uncles who needed a little something to keep young relatives in check.

As he followed him to the front of the bus, Neville wondered if, somehow, their relationship had begun to change; if his dependence on Samuel was beginning to diminish. As they sat down, Neville decided to try a little test.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course, Sir.’

‘My suit; and that flying jacket.’

‘Sir?’

‘I’ll never see them again will I?’

Samuel opened his mouth to protest, but immediately thought better of it. He looked out of the bus for a moment, then back to Neville.

‘They have served their purpose, Sir. You wanted a tuxedo to wear to an expensive restaurant. You got a suit that served not only that purpose but another too.’

‘The dance on the ship?’

‘Indeed.’

‘And you’re now saying that I will no longer have any need of it, whatever happens?’

‘You are going to the races Sir; to the Derby! You will need something different for that.’

‘And after the races? Are you telling me you know I won’t need them?’

‘Perhaps an educated guess.’

Neville wondered how much of his experience — and the tangible things which contributed to that experience — was expendable. He wanted to go back to his compartment and check to see if the “Croak” guide was still there; if it was then he knew he had at least one other lesson still to learn. But it went further than that. How much of this entire fabric — even down to incidents like the dogfight and (he could not avoid thinking it) people like Mita — were injected into his reality just to serve a specific purpose, to enable him to work things out for himself?

‘What shall we do for the rest of the day, Sir?’ Samuel called him back. ‘I don’t think that there is any point our heading to Epsom until sometime tomorrow, do you?’

‘Sorry? I was miles away.’

Samuel smiled.

‘I just wondered about the rest of the day; assuming we go to Epsom tomorrow.’

‘Yes, of course. Tomorrow should be fine, don’t you think?’

‘And today?’

Neville, finally getting his mind to re-focus on the conversation, took up his side of it.

‘Today? I don’t know, Samuel. Perhaps a lazy kind of a day. Things seem to have been so hectic. I think I might like to wander around the town this afternoon. More old memories, that kind of thing. And perhaps we could “eat in” this evening.’

‘Or I could get a take-away, Sir. Do you like curry?’

Within a few minutes they had settled the plan. Neville was to take a stroll around the town (especially as the weather was beginning to improve) while Samuel took the bus to check its water, fuel and tyres. Then they would have a Chinese meal to round out the day.

After a quick sandwich — rustled up by Samuel in double-quick time — Neville found himself stepping off the bus (though this time without his coat) and heading away from the cathedral.

Between two old cottages there was a small discrete exit which led towards the town centre. Neville, emerging at the far end of the ginnel, found himself facing a scene which had changed little since his childhood. Indeed, the first of the small shops he came across — tucked away as they were — bore the same names and sold the same goods as they surely had all those years before. Indeed, he even suspected that, on the exterior of one or two of them, the paintwork — which had been looking jaded back then — was still awaiting the touch of a handyman.

From one such shop — selling trinkets, postcards, and sweets — a lady emerged as he was standing at its window. She nodded, then walked off. Neville was struck not that she chose to acknowledge to him, but because her overall manner and demeanour seemed strangely out of place. Then, watching her until she disappeared from view round a corner, he realised that the way she was dressed fitted not his present time but the past he could still vaguely recall.

Another figure crossed his line of vision. The old fashioned cut of the jacket, the hat — peculiar to a time when he was a child — all gave weight to a theory he was in the process of formulating. For an instant he was gripped with panic, and, intending it as some form of retreat, abandoned himself to the shop. The owner, standing behind the counter, gave his new customer a slightly wary look. Neville nodded, then pretended to look at the postcards. He glanced down at his own clothes. They were not ostentatious or outrageous certainly, but he was certain that they would appear unusual to an inhabitant of the nineteen sixties.

Deciding on a plan of attack, he pulled a postcard from the rack and walked with it to the counter.

‘Hello,’ he said to the man, attempting a fake and indistinguishable foreign accent in the hope that this would allow some excuse for his mode of dress.

The assistant smiled and, in true British tradition, shouted “Hello” back, loud and slow.

As Neville reached for his wallet, he suddenly realised that although he was relatively “cash rich” at the moment, none of it would be of any use. He might try and palm the shop keeper off with fifty new pence, pretending it was Italian or something — but then the Queen’s head would give the game away. He fumbled around and then, staring at the man waiting for the money, shrugged his shoulders, left the postcard on the counter, and walked out.

A few yards further up the street he looked back. The shop keeper was standing in his doorway looking after him. Perhaps it had not been as convincing a performance as Neville might have wished.

In a way he was disappointed to find himself having regressed some thirty-odd years and to be walking the same Winchester streets as he had when a child. On leaving the bus, part of him had been looking forward to seeing how things had changed so that he could compare and contrast; it would have been an opportunity to measure progress, to see how some other part of the realm had managed without his intervention. However, he was now acutely aware that, trick or no trick, there had to be a reason for finding himself walking the same temporal streets as he had all those years ago, staring in through the same shop windows at the same goods. Yet even though nothing had changed, Neville knew this still gave him a sense of perspective, of measuring what had happened to him with the passing of time. He was now something of an alien being of course: strange clothes, and with money that couldn’t even buy him a cup of tea. At least the language was the same.

He had reached the end of the street and was about to turn the corner, when, from the direction of the bus station, he saw a woman and a child walking towards him. He stopped dead, causing a man who had been following him to bump against him heavily. The man muttered something indistinguishable; Neville failed to apologise.

It had been the woman he recognised first. Or rather her coat. It was a little lighter than bottle green with a dark brown imitation fur collar and devoid of any semblance of “cut” or style. A little above knee length, he could see the muddy tan trousers and brown court shoes which, as an ensemble, had come to symbolise his Aunt Maggie. And now here she was again, marching towards him with her heavy Christian steps and heading for the Cathedral. Neville realised that as well as striding towards him, she was also marching alongside him; for there, in those slightly ill-fitting corduroy trousers he’d always hated, he was walking too.

There was little harmony between these two figures (they were just across the road now, waiting for the traffic) and Neville recognised the feelings he’d once had of prisoner and jailer reconstituted physically before his eyes. The child looked sullen, unhappy; reluctant to cross the road, reluctant to take his Aunt’s hand when she insisted. As he watched, Neville caught the boy’s eye. It was a dull lifeless stare, lacking any of the vibrancy he’d always imagined children possessed; indeed, that he assumed he’d had too. This was the face of child who was not interested, who did not care, and who — though without realising it — was letting his life slip by.

Margaret stepped into the street, dragging the boy — dragging him — after her. Neville stepped back a little, and they passed within two feet of him. Neither looked up. He caught the tail end of a sentence his Aunt was completing but missed the specific words, though the tone and the manner of its delivery made his spine tingle. The boy ignored her, wrestling his hand free.

He had always imagined himself a lively child (this as he followed both Margaret and his younger self back down the street towards the Cathedral). He could remember playing football in the playground, chasing girls; he remembered snowball fights with Spotty Johnson, Long Preston, and Big Jim, and how they used to beat him up if scored more goals than them at Subbuteo. He remembered how he liked to draw planes and build model ships from Airfix kits, and how — despite years of trying — he was never very good at conkers. He thought his teachers liked him, even though he was never quite at the top of the class; and he knew his parents loved him. This was the package, the memory of himself he had chosen to take forwards into his adult life. Consequently, he had settled on the fact that he’d been an okay kind of kid, one who was building a solid foundation for the future. But now he had looked into those cold and empty eyes; his own eyes.

Neville allowed them to get a few yards ahead. Margaret, judging from her manner, was still talking — how she could talk! — and occasionally pointing or pulling or tugging. The boy — he — was not responding. They passed the small shop in which he had so recently sought refuge; the boy tried to dawdle to look at the postcards, but Margaret was having none of it. In a whisker they were into the alleyway and through to the green.

As he reached the shop, Neville — perhaps it was habit from all those years ago — again glanced in the window. It was changed from his most recent experience of it. He stopped and stepped back. The paint work was a little different, a little brighter; and in the window, prices no longer bore labels marked up in shillings-and-pence. He looked through the archway. He could see no-one.

Stepping inside the shop, he received a cheery “Good Afternoon” from the man behind the counter. This was not the same man who had tried to serve him earlier. Neville looked at the postcards, at their quality, at the simple difference in them from thirty years earlier. He picked one up and took it to the counter.

‘Twenty seven pence, please.’

Neville took out his fifty pence piece, handed it over and waited for the change. Twenty three pence was duly returned. He thanked the man and left.

As he walked towards the alleyway and the Cathedral green beyond, he knew that his Aunt and the boy would be long gone. In fact, as far as the boy was concerned, he was just about to walk through the alleyway once again, only this time carrying a small paper bag containing a postcard of Winchester Cathedral.

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