#fwbo

I remember him popping up. 

Popping up on the old Metropolitan Line or at the gym in Latimer Road. Popping up at the pond, Hampstead. The Mixed Pond, it always was, pulling himself out of the water, or more often, it seems, at the far end where willows hang and you might catch the cobalt fire of a kingfisher. We always felt more at ease at a popping up, away from those meetings with the capital letters: Trustees, Managers, Community. The two of us just a mix of shared elements, of the water, air, light.

“I am a superb swimmer,” he’d said once. I must have asked him. Odd thing to ask, now I think of it, but, back then, at the beginning, I used to ask those questions: “Can you swim?” “Do you ride a bike?” “ Have you got a job?” And — “Are you a Buddhist?”

He took a step back, whether as a show of mock unease or to signal a theatrical draw of breath, I couldn’t tell. The room was tiny, perched hopefully, roof-high like a pigeon nest above the vault of Baker Street, hardly big enough for the eight or nine of us to stand,  Then, against the window’s nimbus of evening sky he said: “Yes, yes. I suppose I am.” Deep voice, just the slightest waver to flag emotion. 

"These are questions I’ve got to ask.” 

Brenda (or Alison) the Special Nurse. The photo on the id card that hung to her waist showed a young woman, early 20s, pretty, open-faced, auburn hair. I wondered how often they had to change it. Her hair was rather darker now, fuller-faced, attractively lined, putting off 40. 

“Have you got a religion?”

“No, not since the weekend.” As though to make a point I added “I left.”

She asked me where I was born. I told her, slurring the sounds parochially. She seemed to get it, first time, depriving me of spelling it out. “Is that where you grew up?” No. I didn’t like to say where I grew up. “That’s OK,” she said. The game was warming up, nicely. I conceded “Nearby. Not far.”

On her list was “What day is it today?” “Wednesday.” We knew that because I’d already told her. I thought the appointment was for Wednesday, that’s what my mind said. But in my diary it was written against Thursday. I’d searched around — I’d told her this — to find the letter. I’d filed it away. Wednesday.

She asked me if I knew the name of the place we were in. “No.” It was a nice ‘no’; matter-of-fact, even. What kind of place: “Is it a factory?” “It’s a clinic.” I’d told her about that, too, how I’d headed off that day, aiming for the usual clinic, but then, as a bit of a joke against myself thought I’d better check what the letter said.

Maitreyi Interviews Subhuti on Women, Men And Angels https://audioboom.com/posts/5787740-maitreyi-interviews-subhuti-on-women-men-and-angels

In the bakery. I wait for the pretty Spanish girl to address me. ‘What can I get for you?’ I ask for two croissants; one doesn’t seem enough this morning. 

Something makes me look over my left shoulder into the semi dark of the cafe area. At one of the four high tables, on a stool backed against the angle of the  wall is someone I recognise. I must be in a good mood because my first impulse is to wander over and say ‘hi, don’t we know each other.’ But he’s bent over a free local directory. He’s square-faced, rather handsome, fifties, with thick mousy hair roughly parted down the middle of his skull. He’s wearing a heavy check shirt, a kind of plaid that manages to be both conventional and alternative. His name escapes me; but isn’t he one of the Buddhists, and if so, the question becomes -  what’s my name? 

The girl gives me the croissants: ‘£1.80, please.’ I ask her to repeat it, just for conversation, and hook out a two pound piece from my coin pocket. I glance back to the man in his corner. His intentness on reading makes me think he’s recognised me too. Wasn’t he the one - no, by now there are many ones - who had sex with the Teacher and then fell out? I can’t remember.