He wishes he hadn’t lied, because as they walk the gravel pathways round the gardens, pausing at the fountain, the giant redwoods, the lake, Gloria won’t stop imagining a ten-year-old William. The truth is, he never once came here, but a lot of the boys did with their parents. He’s brought her here now simply because he has no memories of it. Even so, the sound of their feet scrunching on the gravel and the fiery orange of the path threatens to pull him back where he doesn’t want to go.

By the time they leave through the Bateman Street gates and start walking along Trumpington Street, he feels light-headed and slightly sick. The open gutter, a mini canal on either side of the road, intrigues Gloria, and she jumps back and forth over it a few times, then settles next to him and takes his hand.

There must be some new buildings in town – different shops and cafes – but his Cambridge was small; Trumpington Street, the sitting lions of Fitzwilliam Museum, King’s Parade, Trinity Street, the Backs.

‘That’s the cake shop famous for Chelsea buns.’ He has to make this the trip that Gloria is hoping for. ‘Want one?’

She grins up at Fitzbillies. The sun is weak and watery, but still, the italic script glows golden on the wooden storefront. ‘Go on then, we can save them for later.’

William leans into the door. The feel of it against his shoulder is the same, the ding of the bell is the same, and the sweet, yeasty smell is the same.

Two Chelsea buns, please, he says, infected by Martin’s excitement at the syrupy thud into the crisp, white box. Make that three, Martin says at the last minute.

‘Martin always got two,’ he tells Gloria as they leave, ‘and the first one was gone by the time we’d crossed this road.’

Gloria nearly steps into the open gutter. ‘Whoops!’ She grabs his arm. ‘I nearly went in!’

‘You wouldn’t be the first,’ he says, instantly regretting it, because now, here’s Evelyn, twisting her ankle and landing with one knee in the water. She’s looking up at him first in pain, then with a laugh, to stop him worrying.

To his dismay, he realises the pavement he and Gloria stand on is fragile as eggshells. At any moment, a memory could crack open the surface and he’ll be swallowed whole.

‘We often saw students fall into it on their bikes.’ He attempts a laugh.

‘I’m not surprised.’ She squeezes his hand.

William falls silent, and as Trumpington Street becomes King’s Parade, and – Oh God! – the Copper Kettle, Gloria’s presence is less comforting, less real, as another woman returns with her fragrance, the bright beam of her attention on him and butter biscuits in a Tupperware box.

‘What? What is it?’ Gloria turns at the twitch and wince of his face.