15 October 1979

Miles and I had the luxury of spending that early summer together, since university finished earlier than school. We had days of lying in my small bedroom, watching the light change on the ceiling as the creek filled and emptied with the tide. We would sit outside the Swan or the Ship, eating lunch, knowing that we were far enough from Exeter to be safe, to be unseen. I had ceased to look at other men, for Miles’ tanned, beautiful face was now all I wanted to see. And he, I noticed, no longer looked at other women. This worried me — I didn’t want to want. I didn’t want things to change. I wanted them to remain always as they were in those weeks of endless time when the sun climbed ever higher. Even the world seemed to have slowed, to have calmed — men drove buggies on the moon, England prepared at last to become a part of Europe, French riot police were deployed to force topless women to put on their bikinis. The Troubles rumbled on — Belfast was bombed and people were killed and Miles grew quiet then furious whenever the news came through on the radio whispering in the bedroom.

We would lie in bed and — as all lovers do — fantasise about being able to spend a weekend, even a week, together. We imagined ourselves in Paris, in Venice, knowing it would never happen. Then the summer holidays began and Miles went away with his family and John and I were left alone.

Looking back at those few early summer weeks during which Miles and I tried to pretend that nothing would change, I know now that the world was simply drawing breath, preparing to blow us all away. It began once Miles had gone back to his wife and the world’s eyes focused on Northern Ireland. In the month of August, while he was away camping in Brittany, more than seven thousand homes were burned to the ground, riots broke out and dozens were killed. One afternoon I sat in my garden, half watching John as he jumped again and again from a yacht into the deep waters of the creek, yelling and laughing with a group of friends, and idly read the Western Morning News. I saw that the IRA were threatening to bomb the mainland and all I thought was that Miles would argue that they had been forced into the decision by the presence of the British troops. That summer whatever I read, or ate, or heard, reminded me of Miles. Every sensation I felt — sun on my skin, cold wine in my mouth — made me think of Miles.

23 December 1999

John called me late tonight — he’s been in Thurlestone for a couple of days and wants to come up here to Ellen’s tomorrow. He’s been down there on his own. But I’ve never known him travel without Sonja. What is going on? I asked him about Sonja but he evaded the question. I know he doesn’t like to communicate by phone and I don’t blame him. It’s difficult enough for us to discuss the intimate anyway — on Type-Talk, with an operator translating speech into script, listening in to every word, it becomes impossible. Still, we haven’t spent a Christmas together for years. This afternoon I bought and decorated a tree and the dogs have already peed on it twice. I’ve been here alone for weeks and now I shall be inundated.