I haven’t thought of Moira for years and I lie on the bed wondering what happened to her. Does she wear contact lenses? Has she had a cochlear implant? Did she ever find a penis that responded as it should? I realise that Sonja is right — sex isn’t everything, it’s really not very much at all. It’s not sex I should be worrying about, and at that moment of revelation the bedroom door opens and my mother signals that supper is ready.

When I appear in the kitchen, Ellen is dressed, sitting at the table. She looks up and smiles when she sees me. She stands for a hug and again I’m shocked by the feel of her bones. The four of us eat, talk about the weather, the property market, Sonja’s deli, the media’s obsession with the turn of the century. When dinner is done we move to the library, where my mother has built one of her roaring fires, and spend a couple of hours playing Scrabble. Four people whose worlds are out of kilter, who perhaps have too much to talk about and so elect to say nothing. I don’t know if my mother has told Ellen about my father. I hope not because I think Ellen already has enough to mull over during the night hours when I know that she doesn’t sleep. We talk about tomorrow, Christmas Day, and I realise that I haven’t bought any presents. It’s my turn to forget Christmas.

I help Ellen to her bed and as she settles she touches my hand. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow, John.’

‘Right,’ I say, and climb the stairs to the bedroom, where Sonja and the Blind Man are waiting for me.

* * *

Ellen has moved in and out of my second life, appearing unannounced in Thurlestone or inviting my mother and me to the Cots wolds. When I was at special school and I went home for the weekends she helped me to learn sign language, sitting out on the deck with me, moving fingers and thumbs, reading the manuals with me while my mother sat alone on the steps, drinking her whisky. I once told my mother that when I was with Ellen I forgot about how I looked, thought more about how I sounded. It was Ellen who taught me to drive — a thankless task, as I couldn’t hear the instructions. Nor could I hear the screams of ‘Stop!’

Now I’ve read my mother’s journals I know that Ellen came and looked after me so my mother had time to grieve, had the privacy to grieve. I also know how much my mother loves Ellen, and more than anything I want Ellen to live, knowing she won’t.

I strip off my clothes and Sonja watches me from the bed. I climb in next to her, knocking the bedside lamp from a table with my usual clumsiness. Sonja and I face each other once again, not touching.

‘I’ve thought about it,’ I say, and Sonja turns down the volume knob. This is not a conversation she wants overheard.