But then they realised my determination to understand, my ability to understand, and they sat with me, drawing diagrams, outlining the extent of the damage and the limited possibilities of repair.

I’ve written elsewhere that I’ve always been a good student, conscientious and dedicated. (I smile even now when I remember studying how to be glamorous before I went to the graduation ball.) I’d always thought that once something — a concept, an idea, a theory — had been named and understood, it had been conquered. I was, after all, an academic. So I read the journals, quizzed the doctors, visited the library and studied anatomy. But even though I named everything, understood its function, knew why skin and ears no longer worked, there was no sense of victory. Quite the opposite. Because then I realised that nothing could be done to reverse the effects of a modest cube of Semtex.

19 December 1974

I’m out on the deck, wrapped in a tartan rug, lamp burning as the rain lashes down, trying to wrestle with the memories of an extraordinary night. I went to a faculty party in Exeter yesterday — Bob Deedes invited me. Something must have pricked his conscience. I haven’t been in touch with anyone from the university since the day I handed in my resignation. The party… I didn’t know whether to go. Normally I wouldn’t have considered it, but Miriam Fraser, who I shared an office with for years, was back from her sabbatical in Australia and I wanted to see her.

I left my arrival at Bob and Jane’s late, went to the Queen Vic first for a couple of gins to fortify myself. I wanted other people to be there when I arrived so I could hide among them if I needed to. Bob opened the door, pecked my cheek and fussed with my coat. He hasn’t changed at all and why should he have? He’s still ineffectual, stooped and apologetic. I followed him into the front room, aching for a drink, wondering why I was there as Jane came towards me. I’d forgotten that I hadn’t seen her for years and she approached in the darkened room and stopped suddenly, her hand reaching for her mouth before she recovered and smiled glassily. Pressing a glass of wine into my hands, she told me to mingle before taking her shock away elsewhere. I stood in the corner and drank and looked around the dim room. There was David, standing by his latest wife, trying to avoid my eye. Ben and Alistair, and over by the door, leaning against the jamb, looking louche, was Miles Brandrin. I’d slept with them all and they didn’t know what to do with my presence, whether to pity me, or pretend that nothing had changed, or ignore me - and wouldn’t that be misunderstood? Quite apart from the fact that none of them would even consider sleeping with me again.

The wives hovered and asked me about John, pressed pineapple and cheese, sausage rolls and vol-au-vents into my hands. Even Miriam was taken aback by me; I’m sure that she had been told but no doubt the description never matches my appearance. Welcome to Reality Challenge. The women tried to smile brightly and ignore the ruin of a face looking back at them. God knows, they probably even forgave me for sleeping with their husbands and lovers. I hope not because I shouldn’t be forgiven for that. The men - apart from Bob — didn’t come near me and what else did I expect? Dai Davies married a woman who never existed and they had loved a woman who no longer existed. But I kept thinking that I was the same woman - still the same woman they’d worked with and slept with. When I left, Miles looked over to me and attempted a smile but I think I shrugged in such a way that he was relieved of the burden.