Time itself, bundling us headlong towards destinations of its own choice, had begun to loosen its grip. A day would last as long as I chose. Leaving my typewriter, I could spend an hour watching a spider build its web. On my walks by the river I stood among the elms and waited for time to calm itself, listening to its measured breath as it settled itself over the forest. I recognised the mystery and beauty of a leaf, the kindness of trees, the wisdom of light. My small house, the domestic streets and gardens glowed with the same vivid air I had seen during my experiment with LSD, and in that unending summer when Henry, Alice, and Lucy had been born.

*   *   *

At the entrance to the funfair, while their mothers gossiped and searched their handbags, the children waited impatiently by the ticket booth. They rushed squealing towards the merry-go-round, leaving behind the solitary, copper-eyed son of the Pakistani news agent. He watched me shyly as I bought our tickets, then darted away to join the others.

The carousel was turning, and the children shrieked as the ancient calliope chuntered out its brassy tune. Horses and unicorns rose and fell. Small hands tugged at the horses’ manes, pigtails streamed in the air, and cries of alarm gave way to frowns of deep seriousness.

Watching them sail by, I stepped closer to the rotating canopy. The lights swirled past, borne on the jangling music that drew memories from the wind, a dream of my own children when they had ridden these shabby unicorns. A two-year-old boy solemnly piloted the miniature aircraft, too frightened to cry, eyes charged by the steaming hoots of the calliope.

As I gazed at this enchanted scene, the carousel seemed almost stationary, preserved forever in a single moment. For the first time I could see beyond the little riders, through the silver forest of spiral pinions and the rotating mirrors above the calliope. Everyone I had known was riding the unicorns, Miriam and Dick Sutherland, a teenage Sally Mumford, boyish David Hunter. I stepped forward, waiting for an empty mount …

“Jim! Look out! What are you doing?”

A wooden pillar struck my hand. The carousel whirled past in a rush of noise and light, a raucous tumbril of chipped paint and peeling gilt. I fell backwards, steadied by two men watching their sons. A woman’s firm arms held me as I stumbled across the veering air.

“Jim—you nearly fainted!” Cleo Churchill pressed my cheeks, concerned eyes peering into my face. “I thought I’d find you here. You looked as if you were trying to climb on board…”

*   *   *

Sunlight filled the garden below the windows of my study, cheering the brambles and elders that crowded the edges of the lawn.

“I’m glad you don’t drive like that…” Cleo brought two tumblers of gin and ice from the kitchen. “Jim, tell me—were you trying to join the children?”