time that grips. You have to trust.”
He leapt through the air clear of everything and ploughed the sand with his heels.
“Coming?” He looked up at her.
“No, thanks.”
“It’s not what it seems. Or aren’t you good on heights?”
“I don’t like being gritty.”
They crossed the road to the estate where Jan lived.
“That was fairly stupid,” said Tom.
“I was impressed.”
“Not the jump. That was stupid, but the other was worse.”
“It’s happened before.”
“And it’ll happen again.”
“I know.”
“Stupid and infantile.”
They were clear of the birch wood, by open fields. Television screens in the caravans flickered among the white bark.
“Corpse candles,” said Tom.
“Snob. They look cosy.”
“They are. Togetherness!”
“Don’t take it out on them. I’d rather not live in London; but I do want to nurse. It’s as simple as that.”
“I wasn’t stopping you.”
“You weren’t?”
“We’ll adapt,” he said. “You’ll get a fair bit of time off, even in training, and you can come home. It’s quick from London. I’m used to you every day, that’s all, knowing I’ll see you—Oh my God.”
Two men were putting up a For Sale notice in Jan’s garden.
“I was trying to tell you,” she said.
“No one does this to me.”
“No one’s doing anything to anybody.”
“What’s that, then?”
“I was trying to tell you. Mum and Dad have been given a unit in Portsmouth. We’re all moving. We’ve never stayed long anywhere.”
“I reckon it’s a pretty mean galaxy.”
He took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. They went inside the house. There was a red light on the telephone answering machine. Jan pulled a face.
“What’s the matter?” said Tom.
“Mum has a patient who rings every day. It’s rubbish.”
“Not to him at the other end.”
“Precisely.”
“How can they stay sane, doing that work?”
“They never let themselves be involved. It’s in the training.”
“But they’re always on call, especially with that thing.”
“What, the Tam? There are some patients who’d rather talk to a phone than to Mum or Dad.”
“Get away.”
“They would. They feel safer. A tape recorder doesn’t want things from them.”
“A cassette confessor.”
“If you like.”
“An automatic answering divine. God in the machine.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Jan. “It’s only something that helps two people help a lot of others. It means they’re never out of touch.
“Or never in.”
“They’re busy.” She switched the tape on and spoke into the telephone. “This is Jan. I’m going to the caravan for tea, then Tom’s coming back to work.”
“Do you ever meet?” said Tom.
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“Sorry.”
“OK. But it wasn’t funny.”
“No.”
They sat by the fire; landscapes were in the coals.
“Are you sulking?” said Jan.
“Thinking.”
“What?”
“Plans.”
“Secret?”
“No.” Tom fingered the stonework of the hearth. “I’ll miss this nonentity box.”
“I shan’t,” said Jan. “All our houses are bland, wherever we go. Dad has to buy and sell quickly.”
“It’s better than a caravan. It gives you room. Every way. Plenty of space for ducks on these walls.”
“You’re a snob.”
“Inverted,” said Tom. “I made my father a regimental gnome when I was ten: spent weeks of Free Expression on it at school.”
“What happened?”
“It melted in the rain. But he was chuffed at the time.”
“Will you be able to work in the caravan?”
“Not as well as I can here, but I’ll manage. Anybody can pass exams.”
“You’re spooking me. You’re too quiet.”
He put his head on the stone. “I’m not very quiet inside. Come on. Let’s go. Forget the house. It’s only a waiting room now.”
The men had stopped their hammering.
It was dark in the birch wood among the caravans. People moved along the cinder roads, carrying buckets. On every screen, the same wrestler bounced off the same ropes into the same forearm smash.
“It was recorded last week,” said Tom.
They reached Tom’s caravan. His father’s topiary, privet grown in ammunition boxes, stood along the front, the rope handles stiff with white gloss paint.
Tom and Jan kicked off their shoes as they entered. Now the crowd could be heard, and the bell for the fifth round.
“Leave your boots in the vestibule.” Tom’s mother called from the lounge.
“Have done. What’s the score?”
“One each. A folding press and a back-breaker submission.”
“I’ve worked it out,” he said to Jan. “We’ll be all right. Tell you later.”
They went into the kitchen. His father had laid the table, and was tossing lettuce in a dressing.
“Smells good,” said Jan. “What is it?”
“Wine vinegar and dill.”
“I always drop the salad on the floor,” said Jan.
“The secret’s in the bowl. Use one a lot bigger than you think you need: give yourself plenty of room.”
“I estimate that salad has proportionately more space allocated to it than I have,” said Tom. “Permission to be a lettuce, sir, please.”
“Permission refused,” said his father.
“Carry on, sergeant-major,” said Tom, and went to lie on his bunk.
Through the partition wall he could hear the television commentary, and a few feet away Jan and his father were discussing salad. “Boston Crab and Cold Lobster do not mix,” he wrote in his Physics notebook.
He took from behind the pillow a pair of army headphones which he had padded with rubber. He clipped