John’s room, this afternoon, still smelled of the sea, even after all that time, smelled of hope and careless youth and life yet to come. I sat on the bed holding a tiger cowrie shell and thought of my wild Merboy and I wondered what I can do to get him back. Does he even exist any more? As I write this he’s lying with his twice-broken legs in a ward in Tommy’s. He may be screaming still.

I’m selling all the furniture with the cottage — every single thing in it — the kitchen stuff, the garden bench, the beds, the wardrobes, everything. The new owners don’t want the dining table and chairs so I’ve had them taken away. It was so strange being there - in that house where we lived for twelve years. Where I watched John learn to stand on podgy, bowed legs, where I taught him to swim, to dive, where he used to sit in his crumpled school uniform, one hand tangled in his hair, frowning and sighing and fidgeting as he did his homework. Where, when he was four, he picked every flower in the garden to make a bouquet to celebrate my getting tenure at Exeter University. The bouquet was full of dirt and slugs and it wasn’t until a few days later that I realised he thought I’d got manure. Why he felt that was cause for celebration I never found out. Where, I realise now, we had such a safe life. I walked round the cottage and realised how much I loved the small windows buried in thick walls, the rough rendering, whitewashed and marked by cases and surfboards and satchels. The stable door in the kitchen, looking out on the garden, where John’s face would appear, announcing it was hungry. But I’ve had to do this. I’ve had to sell it. I can’t let him come back to a bedroom that looks out over the pilings he used to climb, the dinghies he used to sabotage, the jetty he used to run along to throw himself into the river. I mean, right now he’s learning to walk for the third time. As I forget how to talk.

There is another reason for selling: it’s my last link with Dai Davies and I’ve now severed it. I thought it polite to phone Dai Davies’ father who, after all, gave me the cottage, to tell him I was selling. An awkward conversation: we hadn’t spoken for fourteen years. His voice was hesitant, embarrassed. He cleared his throat often and coughed occasionally. Eventually, given he could hardly avoid the matter, he asked, And how is John?’

‘How the fuck do you think he is?’ I replied, and I put down the phone. But I managed, somehow, to say it gently.

21 December 1972

So it’s done. On Wednesday, the new furniture arrived here in Thurlestone and a swarm of men distributed it through the house but it seems to have disappeared. This house is so big that it’s swallowed the tables, chairs, beds, sofas and still looks unoccupied. I’ve given John the bedroom at the back, a huge room with a bay window and a window-seat looking out over the golf course and the sea. It has a wash-basin in the corner so he won’t have to walk too far. And I’ve had a carpenter build him a bed, seven feet long and four feet wide, so he’ll be comfortable. I can’t bear the thought of his scarred white ankles hanging over the end. But is it the right thing to do? A room where he can see the sea? I don’t know. I could ask him.