‘Who is the Blind Man?’ I ask again.

She turns towards me, her hands tucked under her chin, her knees bent, foetal, and she cries without moving. ‘His name is Thomas. Thomas Cornwell.’

‘I’m not asking about his name. Who is he?’

‘He’s a friend of mine.’

‘I know that, I know that. I want to know what sort of friend he is.’

‘He’s a good friend.’

‘How did you meet him?’

‘He’s a regular customer in the shop. We had coffee and then drinks and then lunch.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I was scared when you came, with Ian, y’know, running and shouting.’ She wipes her streaming nose with the back of her hand. ‘I didn’t know what to do.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I never thought that you’d see him.’ Will she never answer? ‘Is that all?’

Her reddened eyes scan my face. ‘Are you asking if I’ve had sex with him?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that what you’re worried about?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’re a fool.’ She rolls on her back again and speaks and signs, ‘No, I haven’t slept with him.’ I feel a blanket of relief cover me.

‘John, I know you feel relieved but I don’t think you’re thinking about this properly. Sex isn’t everything.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Think about it’ Sonja rolls off the bed and leaves the bedroom, wiping her face. I think about it.

There was a girl at special school who had a crush on me. She had long, dark-red hair and green eyes, and had to wear a brace on her teeth all the time. Her name was Moira. She was profoundly deaf and also had a degree of visual impairment, which meant that she wore thick, National Health tortoiseshell glasses. I knew she had a crush on me because whenever I walked into the common room she’d snatch off her glasses so that I could see her beautiful sea-green eyes. But then she couldn’t see and her head would swing around bovinely, trying to track me as I moved around the room. When she stood up to leave she’d bump gracelessly into chairs and door frames. I took pity on her one evening and crossed the room to ask if she wanted help. She wore two hearing-aids, like a smooth pink whelk in each ear, and she reached up to touch them, wanting to hide them, then reached out and took my hand. It must have been an early summer evening, May or June, because it was warm enough to sit out in the gardens. We sat on a bench not speaking or signing because that would have been awkward and I didn’t really know what I was doing there, while her hand grew damp in mine. She leaned suddenly against me and her face was on mine, her tongue between my lips, her breath tasting of the cheese we had eaten at dinner. My groin jumped yet I was simultaneously repelled. Somehow I knew it would be rude to pull away. Her hand reached down and touched my erection and I jumped up, appalled and frowning. ‘What’s wrong?’ she mouthed. I shook my head wildly, speechless, signless. Moira put on her glasses and looked me up and down coolly before walking off across the lawns, back to the common room.