‘So, did you find out anything more? About theosophy and this Durrell person?’ Mark asked, at length, as if they had come out in the car for a chat, and no other reason.
‘Durrant. No. I think he was a bit of a flash in the pan – there’s no information about him in any of the books or pamphlets after 1911, the year he took those pictures at Cold Ash Holt. I couldn’t find anything online either. I suppose if he was discredited, he might just have slunk off back into obscurity. It’s like he just disappeared, after that summer,’ she said. ‘Perhaps off to the war, but that wasn’t for another three years; and it also seems an unlikely thing for a theosophist to do. From what I’ve read, he’d almost certainly have been a conscientious objector. All life was sacred to them. But perhaps he stopped being a theosophist after that year. However – you can ask me anything about theosophy. I’m a pocket expert now. Eastern philosophy meets Western spiritualism, the many levels of the spirit world, the many orders of spiritual being, and spiritual awareness. Reincarnation. Asceticism. Karma. Clairvoyance. Inner vision … Ask me anything.’ She smiled, counting them off on her fingers. Mark’s hands still gripped the steering wheel, and he looked sideways at her, his face pinched and heavy.
‘Are you ready to go in?’ he asked. Leah’s smile faded.
‘Are you?’ she said. Mark nodded, unclipped his seatbelt.
‘Just … don’t expect too much, OK?’ he warned her.
They were greeted at the reception desk by a smiling young nurse with soft red hair, who took their names and gave them visitors’ badges to clip to their clothes. Inside, the building was bright and overheated, and Leah pulled at the funnel neck of her jumper, which was suddenly too tight and stifling against her skin.
‘You picked a good time. We’re definitely having a good day, today,’ the nurse chirped, passing them a register to sign. Leah wondered if she was referring to the day in general, or Mark’s father in particular.
‘Good. That’s good,’ Mark said. When he didn’t move, the nurse gestured along the corridor to the left of the desk.
‘Room eleven, you remember?’ she said. ‘You can make a hot drink in the common room, if you like.’
‘Thanks,’ Leah said, and turned towards the corridor. A heartbeat later, Mark followed her, never quite catching her up, so that Leah walked two steps ahead, counting up the room numbers with mounting unease. The smell of the place was strong and pervasive. The slightly greasy, fusty smell of people and worn clothes, some harsh artificial air freshener, and underneath it all the nauseating tang of ammonia and bleach. Leah took shallow, cautious breaths, just like when Ryan had shown her the body of the dead soldier.
Geoffrey Canning was sitting in an armchair by the window in a small room that overlooked the front gardens and the driveway along which Leah and Mark had recently driven. The carpet was green, synthetic, and very hard. The furniture looked brand new – pale beech veneers, flimsy looking, the chairs padded with more hard fabric. The window was shaded by vertical blinds, turned to their most open position. Geoffrey himself was a strong-looking man. Even sitting down, Leah could tell from the length of his back and legs that he was tall. There was none of the stoop of old age about him. He looked fit, and strong; as though he might get up to greet them with a hearty handshake, hearing Mark’s diffident knock at the door. He did not. He kept his face turned to the window, his hair smooth to the side of his head, thick and silvery.
‘Dad?’ Mark said, hovering uneasily just inside the door. Leah crowded behind him, trying to smile. Geoff looked over at them briefly, his face registering nothing. Mark gritted his teeth and Leah saw stress knotting every joint in his body. She gave him a soft bump with her arm, which made him glance at her, and then cross the room to his father.
‘Dad? How are you? It’s me, Mark.’ He bent forwards in front of Geoff’s chair and patted one of the broad, wrinkled hands that gripped the arms. Geoff made a slight harrumphing sound.
‘There you are! Where did you get to? You were gone for over an hour,’ Mark’s father said, quite calmly.
‘Uh – sorry, Dad. I had to … pop out for a bit.’
‘Well, well. Not to worry. I told them you wouldn’t be long,’ Geoff said, with a slight smile. ‘Pull up a chair, son, don’t stand about. Your mother’ll be along in a minute with the tea.’ Leah saw this remark visibly strike Mark. She gripped his arm briefly in support, then fetched two hard plastic chairs, like school chairs, from the other side of the bed. The soles of her shoes were scuffing static from the carpet, and when she touched the chairs tiny sparks flew, stinging her fingers.