Ellen looked at me and raised her eyebrows. ‘Good God,’ she said and held up her arm. I could see the hairs on it standing to attention.

‘Scary roads,’ I agreed. (Now where did that come from? John, some thirty years ago, picked up the phrase when he was at school and, shall we say? overused it for a while. I haven’t heard it since then. I asked him what it meant and he couldn’t explain: ^cIt means something’s different, dangerous or something. I don’t know.’)

Ellen and I went back to reading the papers as others packed away their sandwich boards.

20 January 1973

There’s been peace of a sort having Ellen here. When she arrived a few nights ago she found me with my head on the kitchen table, asleep, a damp, ragged ball of tissue clenched in my hand. I’d knocked over a glass of whisky and it had spilled across the table, making the kitchen smell like a brewery. She woke me gently, helped me up the stairs to bed, tucked me in and told me to sleep for as long as I wanted. She’d see to John in the morning.

I slept for fourteen hours and missed the next day altogether, waking in the late afternoon when it was already dark. John came into my room and smiled, bringing a cup of tea. He sat on the bed and told me he and Ellen had been on the beach and then prepared a meal. Was I coming downstairs? So I dressed and ate the roast beef they had cooked, and then went back to bed and slept again. I felt as if I hadn’t slept for years. I didn’t drink, I didn’t sit with them, I ate and slept for three days.

I think I need to retreat for a while, need to withdraw. Today’s the first time I’ve been up and about, watching John and Ellen together, but I didn’t join in. They sat and played cards this evening. She makes him laugh, makes him talk. I know that he needs more than me, conversation other than mine. She takes him to the beach, she’s bought him books, which they read aloud together. Apparently she’s even taken him into Plymouth — must have nerves of steel. I watched him with her tonight, sitting on the sofa, learning sign language, and thought how much he needs other people. Soon he’ll go to Exeter, to the School for the Deaf, where I guess he’ll have all the people he could ever want. Ellen told me that he’s said he wants to go but he’s worried about leaving me. That is, about leaving me alone. Ellen says this cycle must be broken and I know she’s right. I’ve spent nearly every day of fourteen months with John and now the time has come to let each other go.

24 November 1973

I can’t go back. Now that John’s settled in the school I thought it would be OK but I was wrong. My colleagues have tried so hard to help me, tried to carry me through the days but they can’t do it. I can’t do it. I’ve tried for months, tried to stand in a lecture room and speak for an hour. But all those young, fresh, staring faces have undone me. I gave in my notice today. What am I going to do? Drown in whisky?