The Child in Time by Ian McEwan Page A

Bell. A sudden movement could dispel this delicate reconstruction of another time. He held himself in. It was difficult to take in the tumbling chaos of so many deciduous trees in full leaf, and the way themisty rain magnified the bright ferns at their base to equatorial size, making rare species out of cow parsley and nettles. If he shook his head hard, he would be back among the orderly pines. He kept his gaze fixed on the building ahead. It was just past midday. The Bell would be open for its first lunchtime customers, and yet there were no cars parked on the gravel outside to diminish the impression of everything being correct, accurate in relation to a master copy.
    There were no cars, but leaning by the wooden bench out the front were two old-fashioned black bicycles. One was a lady’s, both had wicker baskets. Fear was lightening his step, making his breathing shallow. He could have turned back. Julie was expecting him, he needed to do something about his wet clothes. He had to get home soon and work on the reading list for the committee. He slowed, but he did not stop. Cars passed close by. If he stepped in their path he could not be touched. The day he now inhabited was not the day he had woken into. He was lucid, determined to advance. He was in another time but he was not overwhelmed. He was a dreamer who knows his dream for what it is and, though fearful, lets it unfold out of curiosity.
    He came closer to the silent building. He was an intruder. This place both concerned and excluded him, there was a delicate negotiation whose outcome he might affect adversely. He was crossing the gravel now, placing each step carefully. From a corner of the pub came the clipped sound of rain trickling into a water butt. At a distance of thirty feet the windows of the pub showed black. The building looked deserted until he shifted his position and made out dim lights inside. He had stopped in front of the small porch. The bicycles were propped against the wall, sheltered by the eaves from the rain. Their back wheels just touched the arm of the broken bench. The man’s bike was against the wall of the pub. The lady’s leaned into an awkward intimacy. The front wheels were splayed, thepedals clumsily engaged. The machines were black and new, the maker’s name was on the upright in unblemished gold Gothic. The front baskets were clean wicker. The saddles were wide and well-sprung and gave off the delicate fecal odour of quality leather. The handlebars had off-white rubber grips with black beads of rain gathering on the chrome. He did not touch the bicycles. There was a movement inside, a figure passed in front of a light. He stepped to one side of the window, aware that he was visible to people he could not see.
    It had stopped raining, but the sound of water was louder. It spilled from the cracked, mossy guttering and sounded in the rain butt, it ticked away among the leaves. He was close to the pub’s wall with an oblique view through the window into the saloon. A man was carrying two glasses of beer from the bar towards a small table where a young woman sat waiting. The table was set into a bay, and light from its windows silhouetted the couple. The man was settling himself, sedately lifting the creases of his loose, grey flannel trousers before sitting in close to the woman. They were on a bench seat built into three sides of the bay. Not recognition so much as its shadow, not its familiar sound but a brief resonance, caused Stephen to steady himself against the dry wall. His vision pulsed with the beating of his heart. Had the couple glanced up and to their left, towards the window by the door, they might have seen a phantom beyond the spotted glass, immobile with the tension of inarticulated recognition. It was a face taut with expectation, as though a spirit, suspended between existence and nothingness, attended a decision, a beckoning or a dismissal.
    But the young man and woman were engrossed. He gulped his beer, a pint