As she turned away again, he realised where he knew her from. On his first day of secondary school, he had developed a crush on a girl in his year. She had never noticed him and they had never spoken, except for the very first time he saw her, when he got in her way on the stairs and she said, pushing past him, ‘Fuck’ or ‘Fucking’ something. With her irritated face an inch or two from his, she had looked right at him and said through lightly glossed lips, ‘Fuck’ or ‘Fucking’. He had noted the incident in his diary along with her sugary scent. She had not been in any of his classes but he used to catch sight of her at the school gates, in assembly, in the corridor, and sometimes — through a classroom window — on the sports field.
He had discovered her first name. Sometimes he walked home behind her, mentally composing his diary entry for the evening: Angela was wearing a red jumper and a grey skirt and had her hair in a ponytail. Or, Angela was wearing a white blouse and grey trousers and her hair was shorter.
Kenny — who had always had girlfriends, sometimes more than one at a time, even in junior school — would have whistled to make her look round, to make her smile or at least notice him. He would have spoken to her, made her laugh. But Futh was not Kenny. He kept her in sight but kept his distance, as if he were a private eye. He was so focused on her, blinkered, that he did not pay attention to where he was going. When Angela disappeared into her house, he stopped and looked around, finding himself on a strange estate, wondering where he was. Keen to get back and update his diary, he turned around and tried to retrace his steps, succeeding only in straying further and wishing he had gone straight home from school.
In the sixth form, Futh attended an open day in the Faculty of Science and Engineering at the local university. He was in the lecture theatre, gazing at the back of Angela’s neck instead of at the person giving the welcome and introduction, when a movement beside him caught his eye. Turning, he found Kenny sitting down next to him. Kenny, whom Futh had not seen for years, had changed in some ways — he had a chipped front tooth and a stud in his nose; he said that he had pierced it himself. But in other ways he was just the same — he had a bit of a gut, and bike oil on his hands.
‘So there you are,’ said Kenny, as if Futh were the one who had gone away. ‘My mum said you’d be here. And she said you’ve got my old compass. Do you know her?’ Futh was confused and then realised that Kenny had seen him staring at Angela. He sensed that he was about to be teased.
‘I know her from school,’ said Futh.
Now Kenny was looking at her too. Angela, as if she had a feeling that she was being observed, turned around and saw Kenny watching her while Futh glanced away.
The welcome came to an end and everyone left the lecture theatre and gathered in the foyer in little groups. Futh saw Angela leaving her friends and coming over. Standing next to Futh, looking at Kenny, she said, ‘Do I know you?’
‘He knows you,’ said Kenny, indicating Futh.
Angela glanced at Futh and then turned back to Kenny and said, ‘I don’t know him.’
‘We go to the same school,’ said Futh.
‘Do we?’ said Angela.
Futh nodded. ‘We’re in the same year.’
‘I don’t recognise you,’ she said.
This wasn’t surprising, thought Futh. Shortly afterwards, Angela wandered away and Futh looked down at his schedule to see what he should do next. Kenny said, ‘You can keep my compass. I got a new one anyway,’ and when Futh looked up again he found that Kenny had drifted off too.
Kenny did not in the end go to university, and when Futh started his chemistry course that autumn, he discovered that Angela was not there either. He did not see her again until she picked him up at the motorway service station.
In the car, he reminded her of their encounter at the open day.
‘I don’t remember,’ she said.
‘Do you remember me from school?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Angela.
‘We were in the same year.’
‘I don’t remember you,’ she said.
‘You might remember my dad,’ he said, ‘Mr Futh, the chemistry teacher.’
But no, she said, shaking her head, she did not remember him either.
‘He’s retired now anyway.’
By now the rain was falling so heavily that Futh could barely see where they were going. Angela, squinting through the windscreen, speeded up the wipers and turned up the blower. She was going a bit too fast for Futh’s liking.
He asked her, ‘Have you been away for the weekend? Have you come far?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘I just drove out to the service station to meet my boyfriend.’ After a moment, she added, ‘It’s in between his house and mine. We meet in the middle. He’s married so we can’t meet at his, and I live with my mother and she doesn’t like me seeing him so we can’t go there.’
They drove for about a mile without either of them speaking and then Angela pulled over and stopped on the hard shoulder and Futh realised that she was crying. She was doing it rather quietly and he wondered when that had started. He did not know what to do. He said, ‘Are you all right?’
She kept trying to talk but Futh could not understand her because she was crying at the same time. There were no tissues in the car, but there was the towel, although it was a bit damp. He offered it to her and she hesitated briefly before taking it and pressing her face into it and crying harder.
Futh watched the windscreen — the wipers struggling to keep up with the hammering rain — and eventually she said, ‘I think he’s seeing someone else.’ When Futh said nothing for a moment she added, ‘I don’t mean his wife. I mean, I don’t think I’m the only other one. I’m just waiting for him to turn around one day and say he’s done with me.’
Futh sat awkwardly beside her. Kenny, he thought, would do the right thing. Kenny would put his arm around her, say something which helped. But what, he thought, did one say? It’s going to be fine. Maybe it’s for the best. You’ll find someone else. But Futh was not Kenny.
After a minute, Futh looked in his bag and found a packet of mints which he opened and offered to her. She shook her head without really looking. He went back into his bag and found an orange and offered her that. She looked at the orange and then at him and she laughed. ‘Go on then,’ she said.
Futh peeled the orange and Angela took the half he passed to her and she said, ‘You know, I do remember Mr Futh. He was OK,’ and she put an orange segment in her mouth. ‘A bit boring,’ she added.
When the orange was all gone, Futh wiped his fingers on the towel and Angela started the car again and they went on their way.
As they approached a junction, Angela began to indicate and Futh said, ‘It’s the next one.’
‘There’s been an accident there,’ said Angela. ‘If we go that way we’ll be stuck in a jam for hours. I’m taking the back roads.’
They took the back roads, but later, after she had dropped him off and driven away, Futh, sitting alone at his kitchen table, wished that they had taken the other route, longed for the traffic jam in which he would still be sitting with Angela in her small, warm car.
After a few hours of walking, Futh’s new boots begin to rub. The same thing happened on the trip with his father, who sat down at the end of the first day and said, ‘I’m done in. No more walking,’ and Futh had not complained. Instead, apart from one day spent visiting, they spent the rest of the week killing time until, at the end of each day, Futh’s father went out and Futh went to bed, earlier every evening.
Futh, sitting down now on a bench, the hot slats griddling the backs of his thighs, reaches into his rucksack for a drink and finds that he has already finished what he brought. At the same time, it occurs to him that he has neglected to put any sun cream on his face, and that he ought to be wearing a hat. He administers some factor fifty, smearing it over the scalp exposed by his thinning hair, his skin already salmon pink and tender. Rubbing the residue into his hands, he sees on his palm the inch-long scar, now thin and pale.