I’VE BEEN THINKING about the first time I heard the phrase unnatural practices. Believe it or not, it was in the staff room at St Luke’s, on the lips of Mr R.A. Coppard MA (Oxon) – Richard to me, Dickie to his friends. He was sipping coffee from a brown flowered cup, and, taking off his spectacles and folding one hand over them, he leaned towards Mrs Brenda Whitelady, Class 12, and frowned. ‘Was it?’ I heard her say, and he nodded. ‘Unnatural practices, the Argus said. Page seven. Poor old Henry.’ Mrs Whitelady blinked and sucked in her breath excitedly. ‘His poor wife. Poor Hilda.’

They went back to their exercise books, filling the margins with vigorous red ticks and crosses, and didn’t say a word to me. This wasn’t a surprise, as I was sitting in the corner of the room, and my position seemed to render me utterly invisible. By this time I’d been at the school several months, but still didn’t have my own chair in the staff room. Tom said it was the same at the station: a selection of chairs appeared to have the names of their ‘owners’ stitched somewhere in invisible thread – that must have been why no one else ever sat on them. There were a few chairs over by the door, with threadbare cushions or uneven legs, which were anybody’s; that is to say, the newest staff members sat there. I wondered if you had to wait until another member of staff retired or died before getting the chance to stake a claim to a ‘usual’ chair. Mrs Whitelady even had her own cushion, embroidered with purple orchids, on hers, so confident was she that no one else’s backside would ever touch her seat.

I’ve been thinking about it because I had the dream again last night, as vivid as it was forty years ago. Tom and I were beneath a table; this time it was my desk in the classroom at St Luke’s, but it was the same in all other respects: Tom’s weight on me, holding me down; the huge ham of his thigh on mine; his shoulder bowed and stretched across me like the bottom of a boat; and I’m part of him at last. There’s no room for air between us.

And I’m coming to realise, writing this, that perhaps what worried me all along was what was inside me. My own unnatural practices. What would Mr Coppard and Mrs Whitelady have said if they knew how I felt about Tom? What would they have said if they knew I wanted to take him in my mouth and taste as much of him as I possibly could? Such desires, it seemed to me back then, must be unnatural in a young woman. Hadn’t Sylvie warned me that she didn’t feel much beyond fear when Roy touched her between her legs? My own parents were often stuck together in a long kiss in the scullery, but even my mother would slap my father’s hand away when it went somewhere it shouldn’t. ‘Don’t bother me now, Bill,’ she’d say, shifting away from him on the sofa. ‘Not now, love.’

In contrast, I wanted everything, and I wanted it now.

February 1958. All day at school I kept as close to the boiler as possible. In the playground I barked at the children to keep moving. Most of them did not have proper coats and their knees were bright with cold.

At home, Mum and Dad had begun to talk about Tom. I’d told them, you see, about our visit to the museum, the trip to London, and all our other outings, but I hadn’t mentioned that Tom and I were not alone. ‘Don’t you go dancing together?’ asked Mum. ‘Hasn’t he taken you to the Regent yet?’

But Tom hated dancing, he’d told me that early on, and I’d convinced myself that what we did was special, because it was different. We weren’t like other couples. We were getting to know one another. Having proper conversations. And, having just turned twenty-one, I felt a bit old for all that teenage stuff, jukeboxes and jive.

One Friday evening, not wanting to go home and face the silent query that hung over the house about Tom’s intentions towards me, I stayed late in the classroom, drawing up sheets for the children to fill in. Our project at the time was Kings and Queens of England, which I was beginning to think quite a dull topic, and I wished I’d done sheets on Sputnik or the Atom Bomb or something the children could at least get a little excited about. But I was young then, worried about what the headmaster would think, so Kings and Queens it was. Many of the children were still struggling to read the simplest of words, whilst others, like Caroline Mears, were already grasping the rudiments of punctuation. The questions were straightforward, with plenty of space for them to write out or draw their answers however fulsomely they wished: How many wives did Henry VIII have? Can you draw a picture of the Tower of London? and so on.

The boiler had gone off and even my corner of the classroom was cold, so I wrapped my scarf about my neck and shoulders and put on my bobble hat in an effort to keep warm. I always liked the classroom at this time of day, when all the children and the other teachers had gone home, and I’d straightened the desks, cleaned the blackboard and plumped the cushions in the reading corner, ready for a new morning. There was such stillness and silence, apart from the scratching of my pen, and the whole place seemed to soften as the light outside disappeared. I had that lovely feeling of being brisk and organised, a teacher in control of her lessons, fully prepared for the work that lay ahead. It was during these moments, sitting alone at my desk, surrounded by dust and quiet, that I would convince myself that the children liked me. Perhaps, I thought, some of them even loved me. After all, hadn’t they been well-behaved that day? And didn’t every day now end with a triumphant story time, when I read aloud from The Water-Babies and the children sat around me, cross-legged on the rug? Some, of course (Alice Rumbold was one), fidgeted, plaiting each other’s hair or picking at the warts on their fingers (Gregory Sillcock comes to mind), but others were clearly gripped by my narrative, their mouths open, their eyes wide. Caroline Mears would position herself at my feet and look up at me as if I held the keys to a kingdom she longed to enter.

‘Isn’t it time you went home?’

I jumped. Julia Harcourt was standing in the doorway, looking at her watch. ‘You’ll get locked in if you’re not careful. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t relish a night with a blackboard.’

‘I’m going in a moment. Just finishing off a few things.’

I was ready for her response: Isn’t it Friday night? Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the pictures with your boyfriend?

But instead she nodded and said, ‘Freezing, isn’t it?’

I remembered the bobble hat and my hand flew to my head.

‘You’ve got the right idea,’ Julia continued. ‘It’s like a larder in this place during the winter. I sometimes sneak a hot-water bottle under the cushion of my chair.’

She grinned. I put my pen down. She obviously wasn’t going to leave without a chat.

Julia was in the privileged position of having her own chair in the staff room; she was pleasant to everyone, but I’d noticed that, like me, she tended to eat her lunch alone, her eyes rarely leaving her book as she took careful bites from her apple. It wasn’t that she was shy; she looked the male teachers – even Mr Coppard – in the eye when she spoke, and she was also responsible for organising school field trips to the downs. She was famous for walking the children for miles without stopping, and for convincing them that this was the most enormous fun, whatever the weather.

I started to collect my worksheets into a pile. ‘I hadn’t realised the time,’ I said. ‘I’d better be going.’

‘Where is it you live?’ she asked, as if I’d mentioned it before now.

‘Not so far.’

She smiled and stepped into the room. She was wearing a woollen cape, bright green, and she carried an expensive-looking briefcase made of soft leather, and I thought how much better it was than a basket. ‘Shall we face the weather together?’

‘So how are you getting on?’ Julia asked as we walked briskly down Queen’s Park Road. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d survive that first day. You looked absolutely petrified.’

‘I was,’ I said. ‘I thought I might be sick on your shoes.’

She stopped walking and looked me in the face without smiling. I thought she might be about to bid me good night and head off in the other direction, but instead she moved closer and said, gravely, ‘That would have been a disaster. Those are my best teaching shoes. I’ve attached metal taps to the heels to warn the children I’m coming. I call them my hooves.’

For a moment I wasn’t sure how to respond. But then Julia threw her head back and gave a loud roar, showing her straight teeth, and I knew it was all right to laugh.

‘Do they work?’ I asked.

‘What?’

‘The hooves.’

‘You can count on it. By the time I’ve reached the classroom, they’re silent as the dead. I can ride roughshod over them and they don’t make a squeak.’

‘I could do with a pair of those.’

‘Giving you gyp, are they?’

‘Not really.’ I paused. ‘Alice Rumbold is a little …’

‘Shit?’

Julia’s eyes were bright and narrow. She was daring me to laugh again. So I did.

‘You definitely need the hooves with Alice,’ she concluded.

When we reached the corner of my street, Julia squeezed my arm and said, ‘Let’s do this again.’

As spring approached, I began to feel more impatient. Tom had kissed my cheek and held my hand, and every week we saw each other at least once, usually in your presence. But this was no longer enough. As my mother was given to reminding me, it was not yet too late for me. Not yet.

I’m not sure exactly when the terrible moment used to fall, the moment at which a woman was judged to have been left on the shelf. Every time I thought of it, I thought of an old clock, ticking away the days. Many of the girls I’d known at school were already married. I knew I had a few years still to go, but if I wasn’t careful, the other teachers would look at me in the same way they looked at Julia, a woman alone; a woman who has to work for her own living, reads too many books, and is seen out shopping on a Saturday with a trolley instead of a pram or a child in tow, wearing trousers and obviously in no hurry to get home. In no hurry to get anywhere, in fact.

I know it seems incredible now, and I’m sure I must have heard rumours of the existence of that fantastic beast, the career woman, at the time (it was almost 1960, for God’s sake), but I’m also sure that I dismissed them, and that the last thing I wanted was to be one of those women. So there was a panic rising in me as I stood in front of the class and told them the story of Persephone in the underworld. I got them to draw pictures of Demeter bringing the spring back with her daughter, and I looked out at the bare trees in the playground, their branches like veins, black against the grey sky, and I thought: enough of this waiting.

And then the change happened.

It was a Saturday night, and Tom was coming to the house to pick me up. This was the first change. Usually we met at the pictures or the theatre, but on this Saturday he’d said he would come to the house. I hadn’t told Mum and Dad about this, because I knew what would happen if I did: Mum would spend the whole day cleaning the place, making sandwiches, deciding which of her best frocks to put on and asking me questions, and Dad would spend the whole day silently preparing his questions for Tom.

All afternoon I pretended to be reading in my room. I’d hung my faux-silk pale blue dress on the back of the door, ready to step into, and it looked full of promise. I had a little blue cardigan, too, with angora in it; it was the softest thing I’d ever touched. I didn’t have much in the way of fancy underwear – no sateen bras or frilly knickers or lacy camisoles – so I couldn’t select anything particularly alluring, although I wished I could. I told myself that if Tom kissed me again I would get straight down to Peter Robinson’s and buy myself something in black, something that would speak for itself. Something that would allow me to become Tom’s lover.

Several times I was on the brink of going downstairs to announce the fact that Tom was coming over. But I couldn’t decide which would be most delightful: sharing the knowledge that he was picking me up, or keeping it a secret.

I managed to wait until five to seven before positioning myself at the window in Mum and Dad’s bedroom so I could watch for him. I didn’t have to wait long. He appeared at a few minutes to the hour, looking at his watch. Usually Tom took long springy strides, but today he almost dawdled, glancing into windows as he passed. Still, there was something liquid about him as he moved, and I clutched the curtain to my face and breathed in its mustiness to steady myself.

I peeked out of the window again, half hoping that Tom would look up and catch me spying on him, but instead he straightened his jacket and reached for our knocker. I had a sudden wish that he’d worn his uniform, so my parents could open the door to a policeman.

Looking at myself in my mother’s glass, I saw that my cheeks were flushed. The blue dress caught the light and flashed it back to me, and I smiled at myself. I was ready. He was here.

From the upstairs landing, I heard Dad answer the door and listened to the following conversation:

DAD (coughing): Hello. What can I do for you, then?

TOM (voice light, polite, every syllable carefully sounded): Is Marion in?

DAD (pause, a bit too loud): And who might you be?

TOM: Sorry. I should’ve said. I’m Tom Burgess. Marion’s friend. You must be Mr Taylor?

DAD (after a long pause, shouting): PHYLLIS! MARION! Tom’s here! It’s Tom! Come in then, boy, come in. (Shouting up the stairs again.) It’s Tom!

I took the stairs slowly, aware that both Tom and Dad were standing at the bottom, watching me descend.

We all looked at one another without speaking, then Dad showed us into the front room, where we sat only at Christmas and when Dad’s posh sister, Marjory, came down from Surrey. The place smelled of polish and coal, and it was very cold.

‘Phyllis!’ Dad shouted. Tom and I looked at one another for a moment, and I saw the anxiety in his eyes. Despite the coolness of the room, his forehead was gleaming with perspiration.

‘You’re Sylvie’s brother,’ Dad stated.

‘That’s right.’

‘Marion tells us you’ve joined the police.’

‘’Fraid so,’ said Tom.

‘Nothing to apologise for, not in this house,’ said Dad, turning on the standard lamp. He glanced at Tom. ‘Sit down then, boy. You’re making me nervous.’

Tom balanced himself on the edge of a sofa cushion.

‘We kept saying to Marion, bring Tom home for his tea, but she never did. Still. Here you are now.’

‘We should get going, Dad. We’ll be late for the pictures.’

‘PHYLLIS!’ Dad positioned himself by the door, blocking our exit. ‘Let your mother meet Tom first. We’ve been waiting for this, Tom. Marion’s kept us waiting ages.’

Tom nodded and smiled, and then Mum came in, wearing lipstick and smelling of hairspray.

Tom stood and held out a hand, which Mum took and held, gazing at his face. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Here you are.’

‘Here he is,’ echoed Dad, and we all looked at Tom, who suddenly let out a big laugh. There was a moment when no one responded, and I saw a frown begin to appear on Dad’s brow, but then my mother giggled. It was a high, tinkling sound, one we didn’t hear often.

‘Here I am,’ said Tom, and Mum giggled some more.

‘Isn’t he lovely and tall, Bill?’ she said. ‘You must be a good copper.’

‘I’ve hardly started yet, Mrs Taylor.’

‘They won’t get away from you, will they? And you’re a swimmer, too.’ She looked at me with wide eyes. ‘Marion’s kept you a secret for too long.’

I thought she might be about to bat him playfully on the chest, but instead she patted me on the arm and looked coyly at Tom, who laughed again.

‘We should go,’ I repeated.

As we walked down the street, I was aware of Mum and Dad looking after us as if they couldn’t believe such a man as Tom Burgess was by their daughter’s side.

Tom paused to light us both a cigarette. ‘They were impressed, weren’t they?’ he said, shaking out the match.

I took a jubilant drag and exhaled dramatically. ‘Do you think so?’ I asked, innocently.

We laughed. The Grand Parade was beginning to sing with people heading for town. I reached for Tom’s hand and held it all the way to the Astoria. I held it tight and I didn’t let go even as we approached the usual spot where we met you. But when we got there, you were nowhere to be seen, and Tom simply carried on walking.

‘Aren’t we meeting Patrick?’ I asked, hanging back.

‘No.’

‘Are we meeting him somewhere else?’

A man pushed past us, knocking Tom’s shoulder. ‘Watch it!’ he shouted, and the man – a boy really, younger than Tom, with a greased forelock – turned and scowled. Tom stood firm, glaring back, until the boy flicked his cigarette end into the road and walked on with a shrug.

‘Patrick’s in London this weekend,’ Tom said.

We’d almost reached the pavilion now. Its turrets glowed cream against the blue-black sky. I knew you had a place in town, Patrick, but I’d never known you to stay there on a weekend. You were always with us at the weekend.

I couldn’t help smiling as I realised what Tom was telling me. We were alone. Without you.

‘Let’s go for a drink!’ I said, steering Tom into the King and Queen. I was determined to do what normal young couples did on Saturday nights, and I pretended not to hear Tom say that he’d something else in mind. It was so loud in there anyway; the jukebox was cracking out a beat as we stood near the bar, looking into our drinks. The crowd crushed us up against one another, and I wanted to stay there all night, feeling Tom’s warmth as he stood next to me, watching the muscles in his arm move as he brought his pint of pale and mild to his mouth.

I’d hardly started my gin and tonic when Tom leant towards me and said, ‘Shall we go somewhere else? I thought perhaps—’

‘I haven’t finished my drink,’ I protested. ‘How’s Sylvie?’ I wanted to keep the conversation away from the topic of you, Patrick. I didn’t want to know why you were in London, or what you were doing there.

Tom finished his pint and put his glass down on the bar. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘We can’t talk in here.’

I watched him walk out of the place. He didn’t look back for me, or call me from the doorway. He simply made his wishes clear, then left. I gulped back the rest of my gin and tonic. A cool rush of alcohol sped through my limbs.

Until I stepped outside and saw Tom, I didn’t know I was furious. But in a second everything tightened and my breath came fast. I felt my arm going rigid, my hand drawing back, and I knew that if I didn’t open my mouth and shout I would slap him, hard. So I stood with both feet planted firmly on the pavement, and I yelled: ‘What the bloody hell is wrong with you?’

Tom stared at me, eyes bright with surprise.

‘Can’t we have a drink, like a normal couple?’

He looked up and down the street. I knew passers-by were staring at me, thinking, Redheads. They’re all the same. But it was too late to care.

‘Marion—’

‘All I want is to be alone with you! Is that so much to ask? Everyone else manages it!’

There was a long pause. My arms were still rigid, but my hand had relaxed. I knew I should apologise, but I was frightened that if I opened my mouth a sob would come out.

Then Tom took a step forward, grasped my head in his hands, and kissed me on the lips.

Now, looking back, I think: did he do it just to silence me? To prevent any further public humiliation? After all, he was a police constable, albeit one still on probation, and probably not taken at all seriously by the local criminal population. But at the time, this thought did not cross my mind. I was so surprised to feel Tom’s lips on mine – so sudden, so urgent – that I thought nothing. And it was such a relief, Patrick, to merely feel for a change. To allow myself to melt, as they say, into a kiss. And it was like melting. That letting go. That sliding into the sensations of another’s flesh.

We said little after that. Together we strolled along the seafront, arms about each other’s waists, facing the wind from the sea. In the darkness I could see the white tops of the waves, rising, rolling, dispersing. Boys on motorbikes raced up Marine Drive, giving me an excuse to hold Tom tighter every time one whipped by. I had no idea where we were going – I didn’t even consider our direction. It was enough to be walking in the evening with Tom, past the upturned fishermen’s boats on the shore, away from the bright blare of the pier and towards Kemp Town. Tom did not kiss me again, but I occasionally let my head rest on his shoulder as we walked. I felt very generous towards you then, Patrick. I even wondered if perhaps you’d gone away deliberately, to give us some time alone. Take Marion out somewhere nice, you’d have said. And for heaven’s sake give her a kiss, won’t you!

I’d hardly noticed where we were going until we reached Chichester Terrace. The wide pavements were quiet and empty. The place hasn’t changed since you left: it’s still a hushed, solid street where the glossy doors are set back from the pavement, each one announced by a sturdy set of Doric columns and a flight of black and white tiled steps. On that street, the brass knockers are shining and uniform. Each facade is flatly white, iced in brilliant plaster, and each railing is straight and unchipped. The long windows cleanly reflect the street lamps and the occasional flash of traffic. Chichester Terrace is grand yet understated, without the arrogance of Sussex Square or Lewes Crescent.

Tom stopped walking and felt in his pocket.

‘Isn’t this …’

He nodded. ‘Patrick’s place.’ He dangled a set of keys in front of my face, gave a quick laugh, and skipped up the steps to your front door.

I followed him, my shoes making a lovely light clipping sound on the tiles. The huge door dragged on the thick carpet as Tom opened it to reveal a hallway papered deep yellow, patterned with gold trefoils, and a red carpet running right up the stairs.

‘Tom, what’s going on?’

Tom put a finger to his lips and beckoned me upwards. On the landing of the second floor, he paused and fumbled with the keys. We were facing a white door, to the side of which was a small gold-framed name plate: P. F. Hazlewood. Your door. We were outside your door, and Tom had the keys.

By now my mouth was dry and my heart was kicking in my chest. ‘Tom,’ I began again, but he’d already opened the door and we were inside your flat.

He let the door close without putting on the light, and there was a moment when I believed you were in there after all, that Tom would yell out, ‘Surprise!’ and you’d come blinking into the hallway. You’d be shocked, of course, but you’d recover quickly and you’d soon be your usual gracious self, offering drinks, bidding us welcome, talking into the small hours of the morning whilst we sat in separate chairs and listened appreciatively. But the only sound was Tom’s breathing. I stood in the darkness, my skin prickling as I felt Tom move closer to me.

‘He’s not here, is he?’ I whispered.

‘No,’ said Tom. ‘It’s just us.’

The first time Tom had kissed me, he’d pressed his mouth so hard upon mine that I’d felt his teeth; this time, his lips were softer. I was just reaching out to put my arms around his neck when he pulled away and switched on the light.

His eyes were very blue and serious. He looked at me for the longest time, there in your hallway, and I basked in the intensity of that gaze. I wanted to lie down and sleep in it, Patrick.

Then he grinned. ‘You have to take a look at this place,’ he said. ‘Come on. I’ll show you round.’

I followed him in a kind of daze. My whole body still felt doped from that look, those kisses. I remember, though, that it was very warm in your flat. You had central heating, even then, and I had to take off my coat and my angora cardigan. The radiators hummed and ticked, hot enough to burn.

First stop was the enormous living room, of course. That room was bigger than my classroom, with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. Tom scampered about, flicking on huge table lamps, and it all came into soft focus: the piano in the corner; the chesterfield, crammed with cushions; the cream walls covered in pictures, some of them with their own spotlight; the grey marble fireplace; the chandelier, which had glass flower petals rather than crystal drops and was all colours. And (Tom introduced this with a flourish) the television set.

‘Tom,’ I said, trying to make my voice stern. ‘You’re going to have to explain this to me.’

‘Isn’t it incredible?’ He peeled off his sports jacket and threw it on an armchair. ‘He’s got everything.’

He was childlike in his wonder and excitement. ‘Everything!’ he repeated, gesturing again towards the television set.

‘I’m surprised he has that,’ I said. ‘I’d have thought he’d be against that sort of thing.’

‘He thinks it’s important to keep up with new things.’

‘I bet he doesn’t watch ITV.’

It was a nice set: walnut veneer, carved into scrolls at the top and bottom of the screen.

‘How come you’ve got his keys?’ I asked.

‘Shall we have a drink?’ And Tom clicked open your cocktail cabinet to display deep rows of glasses and bottles. ‘Gin?’ he offered. ‘Whisky? Brandy? Cognac?’

‘Tom, what are we doing here?’

‘Or how about a martini?’

I frowned.

‘Come on, Marion. Stop acting like a schoolteacher and at least have a brandy.’ He held out a glass to me. ‘It’s great here, isn’t it? You can’t tell me you don’t like it.’

He smiled so widely that I had to join him. We sat together on the sofa, laughing as we lost ourselves in your cushions. Once I’d struggled to the edge of my seat, I fixed Tom with a look. ‘So?’ I said. ‘What’s going on?’

He sighed. ‘It’s all right. Really. Patrick’s in London, and he’s always said I could use the place whilst he’s away …’

‘Do you come here a lot?’

‘Of course,’ he said, taking a long drink from his glass. ‘Well. Sometimes.’

There was a pause. I put my brandy down on your coffee table, next to a pile of art magazines.

‘Those keys – are they yours?’

Tom nodded.

‘How often do you—’

‘Marion,’ he said, leaning across to kiss my hair. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. And it’s fine, believe me. Patrick would want us to come.’

There was something odd, something un-Tom-like in his voice, a theatricality which, at the time, I put down to nerves. I glimpsed our reflections in the long window, and we looked almost like a cultured young couple, surrounded by tasteful artefacts and quality furniture, enjoying a drink together on a Saturday night. Trying to ignore the feeling that this was all happening in the wrong place, to the wrong people, I finished my drink quickly and said to Tom, ‘Show me some more of the flat.’

He took me to the kitchen. You had a spice rack, I remember – it was the first time I’d seen one – and a double sink and drainer, and the walls were tiled light green. Tom couldn’t stop pointing things out for me. He opened the top door of the large fridge. ‘Freezer compartment,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you love one of these?’

I said that I would.

‘He’s a great cook, you know.’

I expressed surprise, and Tom opened all your cupboards, and showed me their contents, as evidence. There were copper pans, earthenware casseroles, a set of steel chopping knives, one with a curved blade that Tom announced was called a mezzaluna, bottles of olive oil and wine vinegar, a book by Elizabeth David on the shelf.

‘But you cook too,’ I said. ‘You were in the Catering Corps.’

‘Not like Patrick. Pie and mash is about all I do.’

‘I like pie and mash.’

‘Simple tastes,’ said Tom, grinning, ‘for a schoolteacher.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, opening the fridge. ‘A bag of fish and chips does me fine. What’s he got in here?’

‘He said he’d leave something. You hungry?’ Tom reached past me for a plate of cold breaded chicken. ‘Want some?’ He took a wing and sucked the meat from the bone. ‘It’s good,’ he said, holding the plate out to me, his lips glistening.

‘Should we?’ I asked. But my hand was already on a drumstick.

Tom was right: it was good; the crumbs were light and crisp, the meat fabulously rich and greasy.

‘That’s it!’ Tom’s eyes were still wild. He took piece after piece, exclaiming all the while over the elegance of your kitchen, the tastiness of your chicken, the delicacy of your brandy. ‘Let’s have the lot,’ he said. And we stood there in your kitchen, devouring your food, drinking your alcohol, licking our oily fingers, giggling.

Afterwards, Tom took my hand and led me to another room. I’d had a few drinks by then and, as I moved, I experienced the strange sensation of my surroundings not quite catching up with me. We didn’t go to your bedroom, Patrick (although I would love to tell you that we did). We went to the spare room. It was small and white, with a single bed, primroses on the coverlet, a plain mirror above the skinny fireplace, and a wardrobe whose hangers clanged together in the empty space as we walked across the floor. A plain, practical room.

Still holding hands, we stood near the bed, neither one of us daring to look directly at it. Tom’s face had gone very pale and serious; his eyes were no longer wild. I thought of him on the beach, how big and healthy and joyful he was in the water. I remembered my vision of him as Neptune, and almost told him about it, but something in his eyes kept me silent.

‘Well,’ he said.

‘Well.’

‘Would you like another drink?’

‘No. Thank you.’

I began to shiver.

‘Cold?’ asked Tom, putting an arm around me. ‘It’s late,’ he said. ‘If you want to go …’

‘I don’t want to go.’

He kissed my hair, and when his fingers brushed my cheek, they were trembling. I turned to face him, and the ends of our noses touched.

‘Marion,’ he whispered. ‘I haven’t done this before.’

I was shocked by that statement, and even thought that he might be playing the innocent for my sake, to make me feel better about my own inexperience. Surely there must have been someone, whilst he was in the army?

Writing this now, picturing him confessing his weakness to me, I’m filled with love for him all over again. Whatever else he didn’t tell me, daring to admit such a thing was a great achievement.

Of course, I had no idea how to respond to this confession, and so I think we stood like that, nose to nose, for a very long time, as though we were frozen together.

Eventually I sat on the bed, crossed my legs and said, ‘It’s all right. We don’t have to do anything, do we?’ I was rather hoping, of course, that this would spur him into action.

Instead, Tom paced to the window, hands in his pockets, and stared out into the darkness.

‘We could have another drink,’ I ventured.

Silence.

‘I’ve had a lovely time,’ I said.

Silence.

‘One more brandy?’

Silence.

I sighed. ‘I suppose it is getting late. Perhaps I’d better get back.’

Then Tom turned to face me, biting his lip and looking as though he was about to burst into tears.

‘Whatever is it?’ I asked. In answer, he knelt beside me and, clasping me around the stomach, leant his head on my bosom. He pressed into me so hard that I thought I might fall back on the bed, but I managed to keep myself upright. ‘Tom,’ I said, ‘what’s the matter?’

But he said nothing. I held his head to my chest and stroked his hair, my fingers clinging to his beautiful curls, digging into his scalp.

I tell you, Patrick, there was a part of me that wanted to pull him up by his roots, fling him on the bed, wrench the shirt from his back and plunge my body on to his. But I remained still.

He sat back on his heels, face flushed pink and eyes shining. ‘I wanted it to be nice for you,’ he said.

‘It is. It really is.’

There was another long pause.

‘And I wanted to let you know … how I feel.’

‘How’s that, Tom?’

‘I want you to be my wife,’ he said.