LAST NIGHT, WHILE you were sleeping, I stayed awake in the hope of being able to talk to Tom. This involved a disruption to our usual routine, which has been in place now ever since we both retired, and goes as follows. Every evening I prepare a rather lacklustre meal, nothing like the feasts you used to offer us: oven-ready lasagne, a chicken pie or a few sausages from the butcher in Peacehaven, who somehow manages to be both surly and obsequious. We eat at the kitchen table, perhaps engage in a little conversation about the dog or the news, after which I wash up whilst Tom takes Walter for his final walk around the block. We then watch television for an hour or so. Tom buys the Radio Times every week and high-lights the programmes he doesn’t want to miss using a yellow marker pen. We have a satellite dish, and so he has access to the History Channel and National Geographic.

While Tom watches another documentary about polar bears, how Caesar built his empire, or Al Capone, I tend to read the newspaper or complete the crossword, and it’s no later than ten o’clock when I turn in, leaving him to at least another two hours’ viewing.

As you’ll have gathered, there is something about this routine that inhibits real conversation or deviation of any kind. There is also, I think, something about it that both Tom and I find reassuring.

Since you’ve been with us, I make sure you have your meal, which I feed you from a spoon to avoid upsets, before Tom and I sit down to ours. And even though you are in your bed in the room down the hall, we do not speak of your presence.

Lately, though, I’ve got into the habit of sitting with you whilst my husband watches television. Tom has said nothing about it, but rather than joining him in the living room, I sit at your bedside and read aloud. We are currently enjoying Anna Karenina. Although you still cannot speak yourself, I know you understand every word I read, Patrick, and not just because you are doubtless very familiar with the novel. I see you close your eyes and enjoy the rhythm of the sentences. Your face becomes still, your shoulders relax, and the only sound apart from my voice is the television’s regular hum coming from the living room. Tolstoy’s grip on the female mind is, I’ve always thought, remarkable. Last night I read one of my favourite sections: Dolly’s reflections on the sufferings of pregnancy and childbirth, and tears came to my eyes because so often, over the years, I’ve longed for those sufferings, imagining that a child could have brought Tom and me closer together – despite everything, I’m convinced he wanted children; and even when I knew this could never happen, I imagined a child might bring me closer to myself.

Whilst I cried, you looked at me. Your eyes, which have a pickled look about them these days, were soft. I chose to interpret this as a look of sympathy. ‘Sorry,’ I said, and you made a slight movement with your head – hardly a nod, but close enough, perhaps.

When I left your room I felt curiously elated, and perhaps it was this that made me sit, fully clothed, on the edge of my bed until past one o’clock in the morning, waiting for Tom to retire.

Eventually I heard his light tread on the hallway runner, his loud yawn.

‘You’re late turning in.’ I stood in my doorway and kept my voice low. He looked startled for a moment, then his face crumpled back into tiredness.

‘Can I have a word?’ I held my door open by way of invitation, feeling again like the deputy head during my last days at St Luke’s, when I often had to have a ‘little chat’ with a new teacher about taking the responsibilities of playground duty seriously, or the dangers of becoming too close to the more needy children.

He looked at his watch. I held the door open a little wider. ‘Please,’ I added.

My husband didn’t sit in my bedroom. Instead, he paced around as if the place were deeply unfamiliar to him (which I suppose, in some ways, it is). It reminded me of our first night together at the Ship. My bedroom is very different to that room, though: instead of curtains, I have a practical wooden-slat blind; instead of an embroidered eiderdown, I have a duvet cover that needs no ironing. These items I purchased, along with the bedroom furniture, from IKEA when we moved in. I gave the whole exercise very little thought, and IKEA helped me, as they said, to ‘chuck out the chintz’. And so out went all the bits and pieces I’d inherited from Mum and Dad – not that there was much: a fringed standard lamp, a wall mirror with ornamental shelves, a scratched oak table – and in came the IKEA look. I wanted blankness, I suppose. Not so much an attempt at a new start as a refusal to engage with the process. Perhaps a longing to negate myself from the location altogether. To this end, the walls are painted a biscuity shade, and all the furniture is made of artificial wood in a colour they call ‘blonde’. That word makes me smile – such an odd word to apply to a wardrobe. Blonde. It’s so glamorous, so voluptuous. Bombshells are blonde. And sirens. And Tom, of course, although now his hair is grey; still thick, but without the shine of youth.

My one extravagance in the room is the floor-to-ceiling bookcase that I had built along one wall. I’d always admired your bookshelves at Chichester Terrace. Of course, mine are nowhere near as impressive as yours, which were fashioned from mahogany and were filled with leather-bound hardbacks and outsized art monographs. I wonder what happened to all those books. There was no sign of them in your Surrey house, where I went a month or so ago, first in a bid to find you before I knew you were in the hospital, and then to pick up some things for you to bring here. That house was a very different place to Chichester Terrace. How long must you have lived alone there, after your mother died? Over thirty years. What you did during that period I have no idea. The neighbour who told me about your stroke said you’d kept yourself to yourself but you’d always said hello and asked very attentively after his health in the street, which made me smile. That was when I knew I’d definitely found the right Patrick Hazlewood.

Tom finally came to a halt, having made a full circuit of the room, and stood in front of the blind with his arms crossed.

‘It’s about Patrick,’ I said.

He let out a little groan. ‘Marion,’ he said. ‘It’s very late …’

‘He asked for you. The other day. He said your name.’

Tom looked at the beige carpet. ‘No. He didn’t.’

‘How can you know that?’

‘He did not say my name.’

‘I heard him, Tom. He called for you.’

Tom let out a breath, shook his head. ‘He’s had two major strokes, Marion. The doctor told us it’s only a matter of time before there’ll be another one. The man can’t talk. He’ll never talk again. You’re imagining things.’

‘There’s been a real improvement,’ I said, aware that I was exaggerating. After all, there’s been no word from you since the day you uttered Tom’s name. ‘He just needs encouragement. He needs encouragement from you.’

‘He’s nearly eighty years old.’

‘He’s seventy-six.’

Tom looked me in the face then. ‘We’ve been through all this. I don’t know why you brought him here in the first place. I don’t know what weird scheme you have in mind.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘If you want to play nursemaid, fine. But don’t expect me to be part of it.’

‘He has no one,’ I said.

There was a long silence. Tom uncrossed his arms and drew a hand across his tired face. ‘I’m going to bed now,’ he said, quietly.

But I blundered on. ‘He’s in pain,’ I said, my voice wheedling now. ‘He needs you.’

Tom stopped at the door and looked back at me, his eyes glowing with anger. ‘He needed me years ago, Marion,’ he said. And he let himself out of the room.

Early summer 1958. It was already hot; at school, the smell of warm milk became overpowering, and the children’s nap time was a lovely, drowsy affair, even for me. So when Julia proposed we take both our classes on a nature trip to Woodingdean, I jumped at the chance. The head agreed to a Friday afternoon. We were to take the bus and then walk to Castle Hill. Like most of the children, I’d never been there, and the thought of a break from the usual school routine was just as exciting to me as it was to them. We spent the whole week drawing pictures of the plants and wildlife we expected to see – hares, larks, gorse – and I got all the children to learn how to spell the words bugle, orchid and primrose. I have to admit, Patrick, that this was largely inspired by the things you’d pointed out to Tom and me, on our Isle of Wight walks.

We left school at about eleven thirty, the children clutching their packets of sandwiches, walking in a crocodile with Julia at the front and me at the back. It was a glorious day, windy but warm, and all the blowsy horse chestnuts held their candles out to us as the bus made its way over the racecourse towards Woodingdean. Milly Oliver, the quiet, rather scrawny girl with the masses of black curls from whom I’d found it hard to look away on my first day, was sick before we’d even reached the downs. Bobby Blakemore, the boy with the boot-mark hair, sat at the back of the bus and stuck out his tongue at passing cars. Alice Rumbold talked loudly all the way of the new motorbike her brother had bought, despite Julia shushing her several times. But most of the children were quiet with anticipation, looking out of the windows as we left the town behind and the hills and sea came into view.

We all got off at a stop on the outskirts of the village and Julia led the way over the downs. She was so energetic, always. At the time I found her boundless energy a little intimidating, but these days I rather long for it. She’d have you bathed in a jiffy, Patrick. On that day she wore twill trousers, a light pullover and sturdy shoes, but a string of bright orange beads swung from her neck and a large pair of tortoiseshell-framed sunglasses were balanced on her nose. A gaggle of children followed her, and she took every opportunity she could to touch them, I noticed. She’d pat them on the shoulder, steer them in the direction she wanted by placing a hand flat on their back, or kneel down so she was level with them, holding their elbows as she spoke. I vowed to be more like her in my approach. I rarely allowed myself to touch a child, but unlike some of the other teachers, I did not hit the children as a matter of course, and as my career progressed I felt little need of such punishments. I do remember having to give Alice Rumbold the ruler early on. She stared me in the face as I brought the wood down on her palm, her eyes steady and black; I nearly dropped my weapon, my hand was shaking so much. My own timidity, the sweatiness of my fumbling fingers and the intensity of Alice’s stare actually made me hit her open hand harder than I ought, and for many weeks afterwards I regretted having done it at all.

It was a relief to drop down out of the wind and look over the deep valley. Although I’d lived in Brighton all my life, I’d never fully realised such a landscape surrounded my home town. The hills were bald of trees, but this seemed only to enhance the beauty of their curves, and their colours – everything from purplish brown to grasshopper green – sang out in the clear air. The larks were calling insistently above, just as they’d done on the Isle of Wight, and buttercups dotted the grass. We could see right down to the sea, which sent out white sparks. I stopped and stared, letting the sun warm my bare arms. I hadn’t anticipated the strength of the wind up here, and had hung my cardigan on the back of my chair in the classroom, leaving only my pink blouse to protect me now.

Julia told the children they could start their lunch, and the two of us sat at the back of the group, a little apart, watching over them. Clumps of gorse, thick and prickled, surrounded us, giving off a coconutty scent that lent the whole scene something of a holiday feel.

When I’d finished my own egg and cress sandwiches, Julia offered me one of hers. ‘Go on,’ she said, pushing her sunglasses up into her hair. ‘They’re smoked salmon. A friend gets it for me on the cheap.’

I wasn’t sure if I liked smoked salmon, never having tried it before, but I took a sandwich and bit into it. The flavour was intense: salty, like the sea, but with an oily mellowness. I loved it immediately.

Bobby Blakemore stood up and I commanded him to sit back down until everyone had finished their lunch. To my surprise, he obeyed instantly.

‘You’re getting good at this,’ murmured Julia with a chuckle, and I felt myself blush with pleasure.

‘So. You haven’t told me about your honeymoon,’ she said. ‘Isle of Wight, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It was – well …’ a nervous laugh escaped me. ‘It was lovely.’

Julia raised her eyebrows and studied my face with such interest that I had no choice but to go on. ‘We stayed in a cottage that belongs to Tom’s friend Patrick. He was best man at the wedding.’

‘I remember.’ Julia paused to bite and chew her apple. ‘That was generous of him, wasn’t it?’

I looked at my nails. I hadn’t told anyone that you’d joined us, not even my parents, and certainly not Sylvie.

‘So you had a good time?’

There was something about the day, the warm clarity of it, that made confession irresistible. And so I said, ‘Well, yes, Tom and I had a lovely time. He came too, though.’

‘Who?’

‘Tom’s friend. Patrick. Just for the last few days.’ I took another bite of the sandwich and looked away from Julia. As soon as the words were out, I realised how dreadful they sounded. Who would endure any sort of threesome on their honeymoon? Only a damned fool.

‘I see.’ Julia finished her apple and threw the core into the gorse. ‘Did you mind?’

I found myself unable to tell the truth. ‘Not really. He’s a good friend. To both of us.’

Julia nodded.

‘He’s an interesting man, actually,’ I stumbled on. ‘He’s a curator at the museum. Always taking us to shows and concerts, paying for everything.’

Julia smiled. ‘I liked him. He’s comme ça, isn’t he?’

I had no idea what she meant. She was looking at me rather hopefully, a little glint in her eyes, and I wanted to understand her meaning, but I could not.

Seeing my confusion, she leant towards me and said, in a voice I thought not nearly low enough, ‘He’s homosexual, isn’t he?’

Smoked salmon turned to rancid oil in my mouth. I could hardly believe that she’d uttered the word with such carelessness, as if she were enquiring after your star sign, or shoe size.

She must have sensed my panic, because she added, ‘I mean – I thought he might be. When I met him. But maybe I’m wrong?’

I tried to swallow, but my stomach was protesting and my mouth had turned dry.

‘Oh dear,’ said Julia, placing a hand on my arm, just as she did when she knelt beside a child. ‘I’ve shocked you.’

I managed to laugh. ‘No, really …’

‘I’m sorry, Marion. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that.’

Bobby Blakemore stood up once again, and I barked at him to sit down. The boy looked at me, astounded, and sank to his knees.

Julia still had a hand on my arm, and I heard her say, ‘I’m such a bloody idiot – always blundering in. It’s just I thought perhaps … well, I assumed …’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said, standing up. ‘We should get going, or the afternoon will be lost.’ I clapped my hands together and ordered the children to stand.

Julia nodded, perhaps a little relieved, and took the lead, guiding the children down the hill, pointing out birds and plants as she went, naming them all. But I couldn’t look at her. I couldn’t look at anything save my own feet, moving heavily through the grass.

I can’t say, Patrick, that I hadn’t thought about it before. But up until that moment on Castle Hill, no one had spoken the word aloud to me, and I’d done my level best to press it right down in my brain and keep it in a place where it could never be fully examined. How could I begin to admit such a thing? At the time, such a thing was non-admissible. I hadn’t the first idea about gay life, as I would call it now. All I knew were the headlines in the papers – the Montagu case was the most famous, but there were often smaller stories in the Argus, usually on page ten, sandwiched between the divorces and the traffic-law violations. ‘Headmaster charged with gross indecency’, or ‘Businessman committed unnatural acts’. I barely looked at them. They were so regular that they seemed almost ordinary; they were something you expected to see in every newspaper, along with the weather report and the radio listings.

Looking back now, and writing this, it’s obvious to me that I’d known, on some level, all along – perhaps from when Sylvie had told me that Tom wasn’t like that, and certainly from the moment I witnessed the two of you standing together outside Osborne House. But at the time it didn’t seem obvious – or, at least, admissible – at all, and I find it’s impossible, now, to pinpoint the exact moment when I allowed the full picture to dawn on me. But the incident on Castle Hill was certainly a turning point. From then on, I could no longer avoid thinking about you, and therefore thinking about Tom, in this new way. The word had been uttered, and there was no going back.

By the time I returned home – we’d moved into a two-up, two-down terrace on Islingword Street, not a police house as we’d hoped, but one that had become available through the influence of one of Tom’s colleagues on the force – I was determined to say something to my husband. Consciously, I told myself that all I was doing was giving him the chance to deny it. The matter would be cleared up quickly, and we would carry on with our lives.

I could only get as far as the words with which I’d begin: ‘Julia said something awful today about Patrick.’ Beyond that, I had no idea what I would say, or how far I could venture. I couldn’t see past that first phrase, and I kept silently repeating it as I walked home, trying to convince myself that these were words that would actually come out of my mouth, no matter where they led.

Tom was on early shifts that week, and so was home before me. I had hoped that he wouldn’t be there, giving me time to get myself settled in the house and prepare in some way for the scene that was to come. But as soon as I stepped over the threshold, I smelled soap. The house did have a bathroom upstairs and a toilet at the end of the hall, but Tom liked to strip down and wash at the kitchen sink after work. He’d fill the sink, put the kettle on, and by the time he’d scrubbed his face and neck and soaped his armpits, the water had boiled and he was ready for his cup of tea. I’d never discouraged him in this habit; in fact, I’d always enjoyed watching him wash himself in this way.

I came into the kitchen, put down my basket of books and saw his naked back. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. I still hadn’t become used to the sight of my husband’s flesh, and instead of coming straight out with it, I stopped to admire him, taking in the movement of muscled shoulder as he rubbed at his neck with a towel. The kettle was whistling, filling the small room with steam, and I took it off the ring.

Tom turned around. ‘You’re early today,’ he said, smiling. ‘How was the nature ramble?’

Despite your enthusiasm for walking, Tom was always more at home in the water, and regarded rambling as a bit of a waste of time. To him, walking wasn’t quite proper exercise – not enough exertion, not enough risk. Now, of course, he spends many hours on the downs with Walter, but back then I never knew him to take a walk without having a definite destination in mind.

‘Fine,’ I answered, turning my back to him and busying myself with preparing the tea. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. The sight of him – glorious in the afternoon light coming through our small kitchen window – had scrambled my brain. It would be so much easier, I thought, to say nothing. I could just press down that word of Julia’s into the place in my mind where I stored Sylvie’s comments and the image of you and Tom outside Osborne House. Here was my husband, the man I’d wanted for so long, standing half-naked before me in our kitchen. I could not drag such words into our lives.

Tom patted me on the arm. ‘I’ll put a clean shirt on, then we’ll have a cup.’

I took the tea into our front room and placed it on the table before the window, where we sat to eat our meals. We’d inherited a cloth from Tom’s mother – it was mustard-coloured, made of thick velour, and I hated it. It made me think of old people’s homes and funeral parlours. It was the perfect tablecloth on which to place an ugly plant, such as an aspidistra. I put my teacup down heavily, willing it to spill and stain the fabric. Then I sat and waited for Tom, looking about the room, my mind skipping from one thought to another. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. I had to say it. I stared at the lino, picturing the silverfish that I knew lurked beneath, metallic and wriggling. Our bedroom, which faced the street, was light and airy, with two large windows and paint instead of wallpaper, but this room was still gloomy and rather damp. I’d have to do something about it, I thought. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. I could buy a new lamp from one of the junk shops on Tidy Street. I could risk getting rid of this bloody tablecloth. Julia said something awful today about Patrick. I should have said it as soon I stepped through the door. I shouldn’t have given myself time to think. Julia said something awful today about Patrick.

Tom came back and sat opposite me. He poured himself a cup of tea and took a long drink. Once finished, he poured another cup and drank greedily again. I watched his throat contract and his eyes close as he swallowed, and I was suddenly struck by the fact that I’d never seen Tom’s face when we made love. We’d fallen into a kind of pattern by this time, and every other Saturday night things were, I told myself, a little better. I’d even begun to look, every month, for signs of pregnancy, and if my period was even a day late, I felt light-headed with excitement. But Tom always turned the light off, and his head was usually buried in my shoulder anyway, making it impossible for me to see his expression at our most intimate moments.

I held on to the anger that I felt rising in me at this injustice. Just as Tom was reaching for a biscuit, I let the words come out of my mouth.

‘Julia said something about Patrick today.’

I hadn’t managed to say awful. It was very like my first day at St Luke’s, when my voice seemed completely detached from my body; there must have been a tremor in it, because Tom put down his biscuit and studied my face. I blinked back at him, trying to hold my nerve, and he asked, very evenly, ‘Does she know him, then?’

He was so calm, Patrick. This wasn’t the response I’d anticipated, as far as I’d anticipated anything at all. I’d imagined, vaguely, immediate denials, or at least defensiveness, on Tom’s part. Instead he took up a spoon and began stirring his tea, waiting for my reply.

‘She met him. At our wedding.’

Tom nodded. ‘So she doesn’t know him.’

I couldn’t disagree with this statement. It was as if he’d batted me, gently but firmly, to the side. Not knowing how to proceed, I stared out of the window at the street. If I looked away from my husband I might be able to keep hold of my anger. I might even be able to unleash that redhead temper. The struggle I wanted might come my way.

After a moment, Tom let his teaspoon clatter in his saucer and asked, ‘So what did she say?’

Still looking out of the window, raising my voice a little, I said: ‘That he was – comme ça.’

Tom let out a little snort of derision, a sound I’d never heard him make before. It was the sort of sound you might have made, Patrick, at some particularly imbecilic comment. But when I looked at my husband’s face, I saw again the expression he’d worn at the top of the helter-skelter: his cheeks had paled, his mouth was skewed, and his wide eyes were fixed on mine. For a second, he looked so weak that I wished I’d said nothing; I wanted to reach out and take his hand and tell him it was just a silly joke, or some kind of mistake. But then he swallowed and, all at once, seemed to pull his features back into line. Standing up, he demanded, in a loud and steady tone, ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘You know,’ I said.

‘No. I don’t.’

We held each other’s gaze. I felt as though I were a suspect facing a cross-examination. I knew that Tom had been present at a few of those lately.

‘Tell me, Marion. What does it mean?’

The coldness in Tom’s voice made my hands shake, my jaw clench. I saw it all slipping away, everything I had: my husband, my home, my chance of a family. I knew he could take it all away from me in an instant.

‘What does it mean, Marion?’

Fixing my eyes on the hateful mustard tablecloth, I managed to say, ‘That he’s a – a sexual invert.’

I braced myself for an explosion, for Tom to throw his cup against the wall, or upturn the table. Instead, he laughed. Not one of his big Tom-laughs. This was more a tired sound, like someone letting out long-pent-up bitterness. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Completely ridiculous.’

I didn’t look up.

‘She doesn’t even know him. How could she say something like that?’

I had no answer.

‘If you want sexual inverts, as you call them, I’ll show you some, Marion. They’re brought into the station every week. They wear stuff – rouge and that – on their faces. And jewellery. It’s pathetic. And they have this walk. You can tell one a mile off. Vice squad haul the same ones in over and over. The new chief wants us to clean the streets of their type. He’s always on about it. Vice catch them in the gents at Plummer Rodis, did you know that?’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I get the picture …’

But Tom was in full flow now, and he warmed to his subject. ‘Patrick isn’t one of them, is he? A mincer with a limp wrist. That’s not him, is it?’ He laughed again, softer this time. ‘He’s got a respectable job. Do you think he’d be where he is now if he was – what you said? And he’s been bloody good to us. Look how he helped with the wedding.’

It was true that you’d paid for Tom’s suit.

‘I think you need to put this friend of yours straight. She could cause a lot of trouble, saying things like that.’

Not wanting to hear another word of his smooth policeman’s voice, I stood to clear away the crockery. But when I carried the tray into the kitchen, Tom was right behind me.

‘Marion,’ he insisted, ‘you do know how ridiculous what she said is, don’t you?’

I ignored him, putting the cups in the sink, reaching for the bacon from the fridge.

‘Marion? I want you to promise me you’ll put her straight.’

At that moment I was very close to throwing something. To slamming the fridge door and yelling at him to stop. To informing him that I could turn a blind eye, but I would not, under any circumstances, be patronised.

Then Tom put his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. At his touch, I let out a breath. He kissed the back of my head.

‘Do you promise?’ His voice was gentle, and he turned me towards him and touched my cheek. All the fight left me, and I felt only exhaustion. I could see it in his face, too: a weariness around the eyes.

I nodded my agreement. And although he smiled and said, ‘Are we having chips? Chips are my favourite. Especially yours,’ I knew we’d say nothing more to each other all evening. I did not anticipate, however, the fierceness with which Tom would make love to me that night. I still remember it. It was the only time he undressed me. He pulled my skirt to the floor with one hand and pushed me on to the bed. There was some new intent in his body. It felt, Patrick, as though he meant it. It made me forget Julia’s words, if only for that night, and afterwards I slept deeply on Tom’s chest, dreaming of nothing.

Weeks went by. In July, Tom announced that he’d arranged to spend every other Saturday afternoon as well as every Tuesday evening with you, as you were still finishing his portrait. I didn’t protest. Some Thursdays you came to our house, always bringing wine and talking jovially about the latest plays and films. One evening, over my rather tough steak pie, you said you’d finally persuaded your boss to agree to a series of art-appreciation afternoons for children at the museum, and would my class like to be the first to benefit? I said yes. Mostly it was to please Tom, to convince him that I’d forgotten Julia’s utterance, but it was also, I think, to give myself the opportunity to see you alone. I knew I couldn’t possibly discuss matters with you, but, without Tom there, I could perhaps weigh you up for myself.

The afternoon of the visit was sunny, and on the bus into town I regretted agreeing to your plan. It was nearing the end of term; the children were tired and fractious in the heat, and I was nervous about displaying my teaching skills in front of you, worrying that Bobby Blakemore or Alice Rumbold would defy me in your presence, or Milly Oliver would take it upon herself to disappear, prompting a search of the entire museum.

But once I stepped inside, out of the glare of the street, it was something of a relief to be in that dim, cool place, the hush of it quietening the children’s row. It felt very different this time: not as forbidding or hidden as it had once been, perhaps because I was now determined to assert my right to be there. The beautiful mosaic floor swirled before me, and everywhere I looked there were scalloped edges and wooden embellishments – around the windows, framing the doors – in the shape of little turrets, echoing the pavilion outside.

The children also stopped and stared, but we didn’t have long to take it all in, because, to my surprise, you appeared almost immediately to greet us. It was as if you’d been watching from an upstairs window, waiting for our arrival. You came towards me, smiling, holding out both hands, saying how pleased and honoured you were to have us. You were wearing a light suit and you smelled, as always, expensive; when your hands clasped mine, your fingers were cool and dry. You appeared absolutely at home here, completely in control of your environment. Your footsteps, I noted, were even louder than mine on the tiles, and you didn’t hesitate to raise your voice and clap your hands loudly as you guided the children along the hallway, saying you had something magical to show them. It was, of course, the money cat, which you demonstrated using a shiny penny. The children pushed and shoved to get to the front, to see for themselves the cat’s belly lighting up, and you used several of your coins, making sure each child had witnessed the marvel. Milly Oliver, however, backed away from its devilish-looking eyes, and I thought her the most sensible girl of all.

As the afternoon went on, I saw that you were genuinely excited about having the children here, and they warmed to you in response. You glowed, in fact, as you led them around your selected exhibits, which included a wooden mask from the Ivory Coast, decorated with bird bones and animal teeth, and a black velvet Victorian bustled dress – which caused all the girls to press their noses to the glass for a closer look.

After the tour, you took us to a small room with large arched windows where tables and chairs, along with aprons, pots of paint, jars of glue and boxes full of treasure – drinking straws, feathers, shells, paper stars coloured gold – had been laid out. You asked the children to make their own masks, using the cardboard templates provided, and together we supervised them as they stuck and painted all sorts of things both on their masks and all over themselves. Occasionally I heard you laughing loudly, and would look up to see you trying a mask on yourself, or giving instructions as to how to make one more frightening, or, as I heard you say, ‘a touch more showbiz’. I had to hide a smile as Alice Rumbold stared at you in disbelief when you told her that her creation was ‘truly exquisite’. She’d probably never heard the word before, and if she had, I’m certain it wouldn’t have been applied to anything she’d made. You patted her on the head, stroked your moustache and beamed, and she looked over at me, still uncertain as to how to interpret your reaction. Alice went on to display quite a talent for art. It was something I’d completely failed to pick up on, but you saw it clearly. I remembered what Tom had told me about you, early on: He doesn’t make assumptions just because of how you look. At that moment I knew it to be true, and felt a little ashamed of myself.

As I was about to leave, you touched my elbow and said, ‘Thank you, Marion, for a lovely afternoon.’

We were standing in the shady hallway, the children all gathered around me, each one gripping their mask and looking towards the glass doors, eager to go home. It was already late; I’d been having such a good time that I’d forgotten to keep an eye on my watch.

It had been a lovely afternoon. I couldn’t deny that.

And then you said, ‘It’s terribly good of you to let Tom come to Venice. I know he appreciates it.’

As you uttered these words, you did not look away from me. There was no hint of shame, or of malice, in your tone. You were just plainly stating the facts. Your eyes were serious, but your smile broadened. ‘He has mentioned it?’

‘Miss. Milly’s crying.’

I heard Caroline Mears’s voice, but could not quite understand what she was saying. I was still trying to comprehend your words. Good of you. Tom. Venice.

‘I think she’s wet herself, miss.’

I looked over at Milly, who, ringed by about five others, was sitting on the mosaic floor, sobbing. Her black curls hung in untidy strings about her face, there was a tiny white feather stuck to her cheek, and she’d thrown her mask to the side. I was used to the vinegary odour of children’s urine. At school, the problem was easily dealt with – if the child was too ashamed to draw attention to their own wetness, and they hadn’t badly soaked the floor or the seat, I would generally turn a blind eye. If they complained, or if the stench was unbearable, I’d send them off to Matron, who had an efficient but kindly line in warnings about the dangers of not using the lavatory during break times, together with a huge pile of clean, if old, underpants.

But there was no Matron here, and the reek now was unmistakable, as was the yellowish puddle surrounding Milly.

‘Oh dear,’ you said. ‘Can I assist in any way?’

I looked at you. ‘Yes,’ I responded, loudly enough for all the children to hear. ‘You could take this girl down to the toilets, wipe her sodden behind and conjure a clean pair of underpants out of thin air. That would be a good start.’

Your moustache twitched. ‘I’m not sure I’m quite up to that …’

‘No? In that case, we’ll be off.’ I pulled Milly up by the arm. ‘It’s all right,’ I said, stepping over the slippery mosaic. ‘Mr Hazlewood will see to the mess. You can stop crying now. Children, say thank you to Mr Hazlewood.’

There was a weak chorus of thank-yous, at which you beamed. ‘And thank you, children—’

I cut you off. ‘Lead the way, Caroline. It’s past home time.’

As I guided the children through the doors, I didn’t look back, even though I knew you were still standing to one side of Milly’s slick of urine, one immaculate hand held out, ready to meet mine.

Arriving home and finding Tom not there, I threw a tea plate across the kitchen. I took particular delight in selecting one that his mother had given us on our wedding day, thin china decorated with blood-red dots. The ecstatic sound of it smashing and the force with which I found I could hurl it against the back door were so pleasurable that I immediately threw another, and then another, watching the last plate narrowly miss the window, causing not two explosions, as I’d hoped, but just one. The disappointment of this calmed me a little, and my breathing steadied. I was, I realised, sweating heavily, the back of my blouse damp and the waistband of my skirt rubbing against my skin. I kicked my shoes off, unbuttoned my blouse and marched about the house, throwing open every window, welcoming the early-evening breeze on my skin, as if I could let my rage out this way. In the bedroom, I rooted around in Tom’s half of the wardrobe, ripping his shirts, trousers and jackets from their hangers, searching for something that could make me even angrier than I already was. I even shook his shoes out and unfurled the balls of his socks. But there was nothing there, save for a few old receipts and cinema tickets, only one of which was for a film we hadn’t seen together. I slipped this into my pocket in case I should need it later, in case I didn’t manage to find any better evidence, and moved on to Tom’s bedside cabinet, where I found a John Galsworthy novel, half read, an old watch strap, a pair of sunglasses, a clipping from the Argus about the sea-swimming club, and a photograph of Tom outside the Town Hall after he’d been sworn in to the force, flanked by his mother in a floral frock and his father who, for once, was not scowling.

I don’t know what I was hoping to find. Or praying I would not find. A copy of Physique Pictorial? A love letter from you? Both ideas were ludicrous; Tom would never have taken such risks. But out it all came, and looking at Tom’s things around me on the rug, I saw that they didn’t amount to very much. Nevertheless, I carried on, digging about in the debris under the bed, sweeping aside odd socks and an unopened box of handkerchiefs, my blouse sticking to me, my hands grey with dust, finding nothing that could further fuel my rage.

Then there was the sound of Tom’s key in the front door. I stopped searching but continued to kneel by the bed, unable to move, as I listened to him calling my name. I heard his footsteps pause by the kitchen doorway, pictured his astonishment at seeing the tea plates in bits on the floor. His voice became urgent: ‘Marion? Marion?’

I looked around at the destruction I’d caused. Shirts, trousers, socks, books, photographs, all thrown about the room. Windows flung wide open. Our wardrobe emptied. The contents of Tom’s bedside cabinet scattered across the floor.

He was still calling for me, but he was taking the stairs slowly now, as if a little afraid of what he might find.

‘Marion?’ he called. ‘What’s going on?’

I didn’t answer him. I waited, my mind utterly blank. I couldn’t think of any excuse for what I’d done, and at the sound of Tom’s uncertain voice all my anger seemed to shrivel into a tight ball.

When he came into the room, I heard his gasp. I remained on the floor, staring at the rug, holding my unbuttoned blouse tightly closed. I must have looked a sorry sight, because his voice softened and he said, ‘Bloody hell. Are you all right?’

It crossed my mind to lie. I could say we’d been broken into. That I’d been threatened by some hooligan who went about the place smashing up our plates and throwing Tom’s things around the bedroom.

‘Marion? What’s happened?’

He knelt beside me, and his eyes were so gentle that I could not formulate any words at all. Instead I began to cry. It was such a relief, Patrick, to take this woman’s way out. Tom helped me up on to the bed and I sat, sputtering out loud sobs, opening my mouth wide, not bothering to cover my face. Tom put his arm around me and I allowed myself the luxury of resting my wet cheek on his chest. That was all I wanted at that moment. The oblivion of tears cried into my husband’s shirt. He said nothing; just rested his chin on the top of my head and slowly rubbed my shoulder.

After I’d calmed myself a little, he tried again. ‘What’s going on, then?’ he said, his voice kindly but rather stern.

‘You’re going to Venice with Patrick.’ I spoke into his chest, keeping my head down, aware that I sounded like a petulant child. Like Milly Oliver, sitting in a puddle of her own urine. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

His hand stilled on my shoulder and there was a long pause. I swallowed, waiting – half hoping – for his anger to hit me like a blast of heat.

‘Is that what all this is about?’ He was using his policeman’s voice again. I recognised it from our last discussion about you. He’d repressed the lilt, the hint of a laugh that was usually behind all his utterances. He has this talent, doesn’t he, Patrick? The gift of being able to remove oneself utterly from one’s words. The gift of being physically in a place, talking, responding, whilst not actually – not emotionally – being there at all. At the time I thought it was part of a policeman’s training, and for a while I told myself that Tom needed to do this, that he couldn’t help it. Removing himself was his way of coping with his work, and it had leaked into his life. But now I wonder whether it wasn’t always a part of him.

I straightened up. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Marion. You have to stop this.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘It’s destructive. Very destructive.’ He was staring ahead now, speaking in a calm monotone. ‘Do I have to tell you everything immediately? Is that what you expect?’

‘No, but – we’re married …’ I mumbled.

‘What about freedom, Marion? What about that? I thought we had, you know, an understanding. I thought we had a – well, a modern marriage. You’ve got the freedom to work, haven’t you? I should have the freedom to see whoever I like. I thought we were different from our parents.’ He stood up. ‘I was going to tell you tonight. Patrick only asked me yesterday. He has to go to Venice for his work. Some conference or other. Just a few days. And he’d like some company.’ As he spoke, he began picking his clothes up from the floor and folding them into piles on the bed. ‘I can’t see the problem. A few days away with a friend, that’s all it is. I didn’t think you’d deny me the chance to see a bit of the world. I really didn’t.’ He scooped the contents of his bedside drawer from the rug and put them back in their proper place. ‘There’s no need for all this – I don’t know what to call it. Hysterical behaviour. Jealousy. Is that what it is? Is that what you’d call it?’

Whilst he waited for my answer, he continued to tidy the room, shutting the windows, hanging his jackets and trousers in the wardrobe, avoiding my gaze.

Listening to his perfectly even tone, watching him neatly tidy away the evidence of my anger, I’d started to shake. His coolness terrified me, and with every item he lifted from the floor, my own sense of shame at having torn through the house like a woman demented increased. A woman demented was not what I was. I was a schoolteacher, married to a policeman. I was not an hysteric.

I managed to say, ‘You know what it is, Tom – it’s what Julia said …’

Tom brushed down the arms of his best jacket, the one you bought him to wear on our wedding day. Gripping the cuff, he said, ‘I thought we’d settled that.’

‘We have – we did—’

‘So why bring it up again?’ He turned to face me at last, and whilst his voice remained perfectly even, his cheeks flamed with outrage. ‘I’m beginning to wonder, Marion, whether you’ve got a dirty mind.’

He snapped the wardrobe doors closed, pushed the bedside cabinet drawer to, straightened the rug. Then he strode to the door and paused. ‘Let’s agree,’ he said, ‘to say no more about it. I’m going downstairs. I want you to clean yourself up. We’ll have dinner and we’ll forget this. All right?’

I could say nothing. Nothing at all.