Memory is not the analog photograph that fades. Memory is a house, a castle with many rooms. Some of the rooms are deeper inside, honeycombed away. Each has a thousand keys—an image, a smell, a sound. Behind each door is a thousand other doors.

On the bed, in the room over the pub, I made like Mrs. East, time traveling, reentering the past in reverie.

Joseph is Tony Salter from the sixth form, who we all followed about that year. This year, the musical is the school’s Christmas production.

Under cover of darkness, Em and I go out and cut down armfuls of mistletoe from the oaks in the paddock by her house. We smuggle it into school in carrier bags, waiting for our moment, stalking Tony Salter from football practice to his math class, to the ten minutes he spends wrapped up in the stage curtains with Amanda Walker at break.

I volunteer as a stagehand so Em and I can share glances. The dress rehearsal is a triumph. Afterward, the boys change in the music room. The school is largely empty, the corridors in shadows. Tinsel has been stapled to the noticeboards. By the office, there’s a particle board manger and models of the holy family, the animals, shepherds, and kings. Carl Whitefoot earns himself a two-day suspension for his creative rearrangement involving empty beer cans, dog-ends, and multiple counts of bestiality.

Tony Salter in Levi jeans and a white T-shirt, channeling James Dean at all times, makes his way to the boys’ bogs. We follow, but stop some feet distant beyond the evil-smelling miasma. Em’s hand is warm in mine. Can we hear Tony Salter peeing? We hear the door open and immediately stop laughing. It is him! He is coming! As Tony rounds the corner we leap out, garlanded in mistletoe, decked in mistletoe, brandishing bouquets of mistletoe.

“Bloody hell!” Tony says. “Bloody hell, ladies.”

We block his path, quivering. He sighs and casts a quick look in either direction. And then, as though he is doing something noble for his country, he bends his beautiful head to kiss, first Em, and then me, on the cheek.

CHAPTER 19

AILING KNIGHT-AT-ARMS

I don’t know if it was Marcus or Darren I was hoping for when I went to the site. Which of them was the lesser evil. Darren probably. As I walked over, I imagined him looking up from his invoices, wearing a pair of reading glasses he’d bought from the supermarket. Look what the cat dragged in, he’d say. Then later, You always were a sharp one. There had been calls, over the years. More at the beginning. “Can you say I left in September if anyone asks? No, September of this year…” But we hadn’t spoken for the best part of a decade. The last time? Five years ago? Six? A project gone well. A raise. Dinner with Oliver, wined and dined, a car called to take me home. I’d dialed Darren’s mobile from the back seat. It was later than was polite, but the warm feeling—progress, recognition, achievement—was departing, and I needed to summon it back. He picked up after three rings.