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dreaminess, I have to pursue her. This is her game, for me to fight branches which slap or trip. Hack aside brambles and lakes of nettles, step over logs and horse droppings. She might have become a story or an invention though I’m certain that can’t happen here. It’s simply because she’s chosen a better course through the woods.
    Watching her go, she was the essence of femininity – graceful and precise – while my progress is slow and clumsy.
    ‘Bernadette, where’ve you got to?’ No use asking you, doctor.
    Have to stop. What a noisy banging and crashing I’ve been making. A hush descending with an ominous quality about it. Movements still play high up in the topmost branches.
    ‘Binny – hello…’ No answer. She should answer.
    A bank of earth ahead, with shafts of light pushed into this subdued underworld.
    Run to it and scramble up. Doctor, are you watching? I’ll need to clutch at those stems to aid my ascent. This trouble I’m having – it’s not very steep but the hamper is hampering me.
    What a splendid surprise. I wish you could see this. All is washed with an exquisite brightness. Abundant bottle-green ferns, growing each side of a wide track covered in a lush moss. Fewer trees but each seem a flawless specimen, huge rugged boles which two adults couldn’t encircle. Long dipped boughs are an invitation to be climbed if I were younger. The ferns are neighbours with fields of ox-eye daisies and vibrant red poppies.
    As lovely as this is I’m feeling uneasy at losing her. She’s here in the mindroom somewhere. Maybe I just need to reconstruct her in a proper fashion; perhaps I need to call her name again.
    Push my way through the ferns. Another surprise. A circle of grass surrounding a mammoth oak is in superb condition as if tended by a gardener. A magpie has flown to a bough.
    ‘Bernadette!’ Has she got lost?
    Throw the hamper onto the grass. I’m certain she’s nearby. Make my way back to the shady territory.
    As I’m battling through bushes, scraping past black and green thickets, a sense of foreboding is taking hold. Thistwilight is muffling the outer world. My one spot of woodland is an island, a crafty hall of mirrors reflecting only a few clumps of trees and the same tangles of plants bedded into their layer of decaying vegetation. And if I were to scrape away at my feet I would discover concrete. In fact, when I look down, it is concrete. When I find Bernadette I’ll see other Bernadettes running. First there’ll be a laugh of delight, hanging high with the birds’ nests, solidifying and proclaiming delighted attention, as though suspended on an invisible wire. Then this’ll fragment like a comet breaking up; I wouldn’t know whether a duplication or the real Bernadette produced it, the wonderful, gentle creature whom I love so much. And she loves me.
    Now it’s a Bernadette wandering through a dismal place, no doubt with tears welling, desperate to erase false memories of bony fingers shuffling Tarot cards, stealers who can make their skins the texture of bark, chameleon-like. She might be calling from the depths but the scheming trees would be stifling her or sending her in the wrong direction.
    Being fooled by these mirrors and I’m going round in circles. I’ve been hacking aside cables and metal lattices for over ten minutes. Concrete trees and steel bushes decide where I should go; pushing me one way, barring my advance another. Scratched and whipped, rendered tired and impatient, hungry and worried. Must regard my watches. One second needs to kickstart the other.
    Try to push away nasty notions. There are some oddcharacters about. What if Bernadette has been discovered by someone, this pretty young woman wearing a pretty dress? Perhaps ancient fathers have found her. No, erase that.
    As it happens, there’s an odd character inspecting me in a quite annoying manner. He appears to be standing on a train station platform. Why would you inspect me in such an