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developed between her palm and the small starfish of a hand that was Paula’s.
    ‘Do you know the poem “Sailing to Byzantium”?’ she asked him. They were standing at the rail, watching. He was close enough for her to feel his hip against hers.
    He didn’t.
    ‘That’s what we’re doing. We’re sailing to Byzantium.’

Five
    Thomas attends a faculty meeting, a tedium of discussion and deliberation in which they argue about labels on office doors. Should the department, in the pursuit of equality and the denial of hierarchy, abandon academic titles? Should the élitist ‘Dr T. Denham’ become the egalitarian ‘Thomas Denham’? The arguments circle, like the flies circling aimlessly in the centre of the room. ‘Why shouldn’t you be able to distinguish me from the caretaker?’ one of Thomas’ colleagues, a man of great personal courage, asks. ‘Did I spend years acquiring letters after my name in order to be reduced by your absurd principles from a
fellow
to a
bloke
?’
    There’s laughter – after all, the joke was quite good – but Thomas fails to join in because he is not paying attention. With all the eagerness of the hunter for the quarry, he is thinking of the next class of Historiography Module 101.
    As so often with hunting, waiting is rewarded: once againKale is the last to leave at the end of the class. She has that calm air of method, a taking of her time instead of rushing for the door like an adolescent. Today she looks older than previously. Perhaps it is her make-up, the blood red of today’s lips. It is so difficult to tell these days. Fashion gives little clue, manner gives less. She is, perhaps, in her late twenties. His heart lifts and sinks, both at the same time: a safer prospect, but at the same time less impressionable.
    ‘How about today?’
    She glances up, puzzled. ‘Today?’
    ‘My offer of lunch.’
    ‘Oh.’ She looks round as though for an excuse, but doesn’t find one in the now empty seminar room with its disordered rows of chairs, its fire extinguisher and evacuation notices, its framed pictures of political posters from the Soviet Union – Trotsky like a glaring demon, Lenin pointing into the sunrise. Is it a good sign that she hasn’t come equipped with a get-out line? Or maybe she has completely forgotten his previous invitation and isn’t clever enough to invent an excuse on the spur of the moment.
    She shrugs. ‘All right.’
    ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Great.’
    They leave the building together, talking history, which is fine as far as Thomas is concerned. History is life; life history. He talks, she listens, and anyone overhearing might conclude that they are simply teacher and pupil discussing academic issues of mutual interest. They walk along the plate-glass flanks of the building, past a noticeboard that exhorts people to come to a disco, a demonstration, a festival of alternative film. It is a delight to have this girl walking by his side. Her presence confirms what he always feels, that he is as young as she; younger, in fact. Perhaps her height helps. She is quite tall, as tall as his mother.
    Discussing Eric’s absurdities, they go out through the gates and pause on the pavement, on the edge of the traffic. ‘He’s a laugh,’ Kale says.
    ‘He’s the face of barbarism. Did you hear his comment when I gave you
What is History?
to read? He asked whether it was available on video.’
    ‘That was a joke.’
    ‘It was the truth dressed up as a joke.’
    ‘Whatever.’ She moves to cross the road and Thomas grabs her as a bus sweeps past, mere inches away. ‘It’s a one-way street.’ He points. The words are there, at her feet: LOOK LEFT . ‘For a second I thought you were going to bring the narrative to an abrupt halt.’ She gives a nervous laugh as he takes her arm and ushers her across the road in safety.
    For lunch he has decided on a pub that isn’t usually frequented by members of the department. You have to know these things if you want