What worries me more than these memories, and they worry me enough, is that John seems to be retreating from the world again. The way he did in hospital when he looked at my face and turned his back.

20 July 1976

That policeman who came to the cottage a few years ago, the day when John broke Martin Sawyer’s nose, was, if I remember rightly, more interested in me than in John’s misdemeanours. They usually were. John sat on the kitchen stool, his legs swinging, an ice pack against his eye, and ignored the policeman’s monotonal voice rambling on and on about other, better ways of settling disputes, as John looked sceptical, staring at the floor and grunting every now and then. Finally the man ground to a halt and made the mistake of ruffling John’s hair, saying he hoped never to have to see him again. John simply looked at him, making it plain that the feeling was mutual.

‘Perhaps we could have a word in private, ma’am?’ the policeman asked.

I sent John out into the garden and sat on the still-warm stool. ‘Yes?’

‘This was a serious assault for someone so young. He’s lucky he’s too young to be charged.’ I said nothing.

‘Do you know why it happened? What started it?’

‘No — John won’t say.’ But I thought I could guess.

‘Well, let’s hope he’s learned his lesson, let’s hope it doesn’t happen again.’ He glanced at his notebook. ‘It’s not the first time we’ve been round, is it?’

‘No.’

‘In fact this is the third time this year.’

‘Yes.’

‘I believe you live alone.’

‘No, I live with my son.’

The policeman glanced through the kitchen window at John, who was squatting down by the small pond in the corner of the garden, swirling the water with his hands. ‘I meant that you don’t have a husband.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Perhaps he needs a man around, a role model, if you like’

‘Possibly.’

The two of us watched John in the garden.

‘The victim is badly injured, as you know. He’s sustained a broken nose and fractured jaw as well as a number of abrasions.’

‘Martin Sawyer isn’t a victim, he’s a bully. And I know that you’ve often been called round to his house, too. In my opinion, if John hit him, he deserved it.’

‘Nevertheless …’

I stood up. ‘I’m sorry to be rude, but I’ve got lots of marking to do.’ I followed the man’s dark blue uniform through the tiny hallway, and he stopped, as I knew he would, at the front door, turning his ludicrous helmet in his hands.

‘I was wondering if, maybe, you’d like to have a drink sometime? Perhaps we could go to the Ship for a meal?’

‘Thank you, but I’m very busy at the moment.’ I watched his face change as he tried, tried so hard, to think of a diversionary tactic, a means of lulling me into saying yes, and failing.

‘Maybe some other time?’