Coincidence: A Novel by J. W. Ironmonger Page B

up?’
    A student towards the back of the lecture theatre rose.
    â€˜And can you remind the class of your name?’
    The student grinned. ‘My name is Jonathan Post,’ he said.
    â€˜We have the same surname. How coincidental is that? And before you ask,’ said Thomas, ‘we’re not related.’ He took a longer look at the student who was on his feet. ‘What did you do to your arm?’ he asked.
    Jonathan Post raised his arm. It was in a plaster cast.
    â€˜The same name, the same birthday and the same plaster cast,’ Thomas told his students. ‘Now go away and calculate the chances of that happening.’
    Back in his office, the telephone was ringing. A woman gave her name and asked to speak to Dr Post.
    â€˜Speaking,’ said Thomas. He was still feeling a glow of satisfaction from his performance in the lecture hall.
    â€˜Are you the Coincidence Authority?’ the voice asked.
    Thomas laughed. ‘I’ve been called a lot of things,’ he said, ‘but I don’t think I’ve ever been called that.’
    There was an awkward silence.
    â€˜All the same,’ he added, ‘I think I’m probably the person you want.’
    â€˜Oh good. I’m a colleague of yours,’ said the voice on the phone, ‘from Birkbeck. I’ve been reading your paper on coincidence.’
    â€˜Well you won’t believe this,’ said Thomas, ‘but not only have I just come from delivering a lecture on coincidence, but I’m holding that very paper in my hand. Well actually I’m not, because I have only one good hand at present, and that one is holding the telephone. But I’m looking at that very paper on my desk. So we have a coincidence right away.’
    The woman laughed, and her laugh was like the tinkling of a wind chime. ‘What I should like,’ she said, ‘is to come and talk to you about it.’
    â€˜Of course,’ said Thomas, feeling strangely light-headed, ‘any time.’
    â€˜Is your office in the building in Russell Square?’
    â€˜It is.’
    â€˜Then I’ll be there in twenty minutes,’ she said. ‘I shall see you then.’
    So it was, that while Thomas was reflecting on the general gullibility of the population to the very ordinariness of encounters that they still consider remarkable, a soft knock came at his door, and around the door popped the unmistakable face of the woman he had met on the escalator at Euston Station – Azalea Lewis.

Part Two
    Losing Azalea
    she dwells inside my picture frame
    she has a face
    she has a name
    but i have neither sight nor sense
    to trace her fading providence
    engulfed in dreams i still await
    the calculating hand of fate
    but ash from fortune’s spiteful cast
    has sealed my celebration fast
    and thus my providence amassed
    its covenant and weight
    p. j. loak

8
    June 2012
    â€˜I need to digress a bit,’ Thomas says.
    They have finished their lunch, but Clementine Bielszowska has an aversion to lifts, so rather than brave the endless flights of stairs back up to Thomas’s garret, they are still in the canteen. The lunchtime press of students and staff has eased. It is quieter now, and easier to talk.
    â€˜This whole story feels like one extended digression,’ Clementine remarks, but she rests her hand on Thomas’s knee to show that this isn’t meant unkindly.
    â€˜It isn’t easy to put it all in order,’ Thomas says. ‘There are different threads, and they all have a different starting point. Azalea’s thread starts in Port St Menfre in the seventies. But Luke’s thread starts much earlier.’
    â€˜Luke?’
    â€˜Luke Folley. The man who adopted Azalea.’
    â€˜I see. And we need his thread?’
    Thomas shuts his eyes as if banishing the light will focus his mind on the narrative. ‘Have you ever been to Uganda?’
    â€˜Uganda? No.’ Clementine is emphatic.