affairs and beach stones

III - I

WE'RE TIRED TODAY. I was up most of the night writing, and now, at eleven thirty in the morning, I've only just sat down with a coffee after bathing and dressing you, giving you breakfast and moving your body so you can look out of the window, although I know you'll be asleep again within the hour. It's stopped raining but the wind is up and I've turned the heating on, giving the house a dry, dusty smell that I find quite comforting.

I wonder how much longer we have, if I'm honest, to get through this story. And I wonder how much time I have to persuade Harry to talk to you. Last night he didn't sleep well either – I heard him get up at least three times. It won't surprise you to know we've had separate rooms for many years now. During the day he goes out, and I don't ask him where he spends his hours any more. I stopped asking at least twenty years ago, after I received the answer I'd known was coming. Harry was on his way to work, I remember, and was wearing his security guard's uniform. It was very shiny, that uniform – all silver buttons and epaulettes and a big belt buckle at the waist. A poor imitation of a policeman's uniform, but Harry looked striking in it, nevertheless. He was on night shifts at the time. On my enquiry about how he spent the day whilst I was at work, he looked me in the face and said, 'I meet strangers. Sometimes we have a drink. Sometimes we have sex. That's what I do, Marion. Please don't ask me about it again.'

On hearing that, there was a part of me that was relieved, because I knew I hadn't totally destroyed my husband.

Perhaps he still meets strangers. I don't know. I know that on most days he takes Walter for lengthy walks across the downs. I used to volunteer at the local primary on Tuesdays, helping the little ones with their reading, and Harry would stay indoors on that day. But since you came, I've told the school I'm no longer available, and so Harry goes wandering every day of the week. He is a busy man. He has always been good at being busy. He swims every morning, even now. No more than

fifteen minutes, but still he drives down to Telscombe Cliffs and enters the icy water. I don't need to tell you, Louis, that for a man of sixty-three, he is remarkably fit. He never let himself go. He keeps a close eye on his weight, hardly ever takes a drink, swims, walks the dog, and watches documentaries in the evening. Anything involving real-life crime interests him, which always surprises me, considering what happened. And he talks to no one. Least of all to me.

You see, the truth is he didn't want you to come here. It was my idea. In fact, I insisted. You'll find it hard to believe, but in over forty years of marriage, I've never insisted on anything like I insisted on this.

Every morning I hope my husband won't leave the house. But since the morning when I tried to have you sit at what Nurse Pamela calls the 'family table', Harry doesn't even breakfast with us. I used to find his absence something of a relief, after everything we'd been through, but now I want him here by my side. And I want him by your side, too. I hope that he will join us in your room, if only for a little while. I hope that he will come and at least look at you – really look at you – and see what I can see: that despite everything, you still love him. I hope this will break his silence.

Instead of four days in Weymouth, you offered us the use of your cottage on the Isle of Wight over half-term.

Although I had my misgivings, I was so desperate to escape from the separate-beds arrangement at Harry's parents' house, into which we'd moved while we were waiting for a police house, that I agreed. (There wasn't the space, Harry said, for a double bed in his room, so I'd ended up in Sylvie's old room.) Harry and I would have four nights to ourselves, and you'd join us for the final three, in order to 'show us around the place'. It would mean a whole week away, and for most of that time I'd be alone with Harry. So I agreed.

The cottage was not at all what I'd imagined. When you'd said cottage, I'd presumed you were being modest, and that

what you really meant was 'small mansion', or, at the very least, 'well-appointed seaside villa'.