Already I had recognised the rising star of the Psychology Department, Dr. Richard Sutherland, presumably the owner of the Chevrolet and the Stan Kenton record. More like a film actor than a Cambridge don, he was a handsome Scotsman with a shock of red hair that he combed out to maximum effect. He wore basketball sneakers, tartan shirt, and jeans, clothes seen in Cambridge only on off-duty American servicemen. On the wall behind him were the wooden propeller of a Tiger Moth, a New Jersey licence plate, and a framed photograph of himself with von Neumann. Sutherland had taken his doctoral degree at Princeton, and it was even rumoured that he had appeared on television, inconceivably fast behaviour for a Cambridge academic.

He cast an affable eye over me, as if he already had a serviceable grasp of my motives. “You’re a first-year med…? How did I guess? The formalin—you all smell like Glasgow undertakers. Let me show you what we’re testing.”

Watched by the schoolgirl’s approving but arch eyes, he took me rapidly through the experiment, which would test the persistence of after-images in the optical centres of the brain.

“You’ll find it fascinating—you can actually see the brain working—assuming you medicos have a brain, something Miriam inclines to doubt. First we’d like you to fill out this questionnaire. We need to get an idea of your psychological profile. Do introverts have more persistent after-images than extroverts? Nothing personal, we don’t need to know if you lusted after your grandmother.”

“She lusted after me.”

“That’s the spirit. Miriam, take over, he’s ready to confess.”

“I’m looking for the thumbscrew, Dr. Richard.”

Sutherland lifted an American ski jacket from the door peg. “Miriam’s in the sixth form at the Perse School, she’s helping out while my secretary has a baby. See you after my lecture.”

He left us while Miriam took me through the questionnaire. She read out the entries in a mock-solemn voice, strong eyes watching me without expression as I fumbled over my replies. Her fingers played with the beads of her bracelet, as if adding up her first impressions of me. A modest score, I guessed. Despite the school uniform, she was only a year younger than me, and in complete command of the office, handling the bulky folders like an experienced bookkeeper. Her loosened school tie, creased tunic, and the laboratory stain on her cotton shirt gave her a kind of dishevelled glamour. Had she just left the unmade bed I could see in the inner office? Already I wondered if she and Dr. Sutherland were lovers.

Only when she checked the details of my birth in China did she properly notice me for the first time.

“Shanghai? Were you there during the war?”

“I was interned by the Japs. Do you know Peggy Gardner?”

“Of course—we’re all in awe of her.”

“She was in the same camp.”