I worry about John now. There’s something wrong between him and Sonja. I know that. But I don’t know what it is. I’m old, I’m sixty-five. I know that’s not considered old these days but there are many ways of being old. And there are many ways of being wise, just as there are many ways of being foolish. It’s 2.30 a.m. I want to call John and tell him that I love him but it’s too late. I want to be able to tell Merboy that I loved him.

25 December 1972

Four days we’ve been here and now it’s Christmas Day and we’re still living in the shell of a house. We need more furniture, more books, more things to make us feel that we belong. God knows, I should have bought a Christmas tree, decorations, presents. I should have had mulled wine steaming on the cooker, should have piled a glittering mound of parcels under the tree, as the smells of chestnuts, turkey and parsnips roasting floated and tantalised. Of course, there were none of these because I forgot about Christmas. I can’t believe that I forgot Christmas.

This morning I went to John’s room to wake him up but he was already awake, sitting on the window-seat, his head resting on his arms, staring at the distant swell. You know what I did? I stood by the door and said, ‘Hello.’ Can you believe that? I had forgotten that he wouldn’t hear me. I heard myself and wanted to run down the stairs to throw myself into the sea and drift away until I slipped away. But then who would care for John?

So I stood and watched him for a while. Of course, he didn’t know I was in the room and I could see his lips moving. He is still so handsome and so tall. The doctors marvelled at how he grew, despite the damage to his body. They would measure him and whistle, their brows knitting. One doctor, Dr Webster, a shy, blond man with a stutter, came to me one day as John slept and beckoned me to the door.

‘Mrs Player,’ he whispered (why? he wasn’t going to wake John up), ‘I’ve b- b- b-’

Burned? Burdened? Bombed?

‘-been looking at John’s r- r- r-’

Right leg? Rectum?

‘-records. I’ve c- c- c-’

Clinched? Climaxed?

‘-come to the conclusion that John, when he is f- f- f-’

Forty? Finished? Fucked?

‘-fully grown, he’ll be six feet seven inches.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ I cried, and stepped back, knocking John’s bedpan from a table.

This morning I looked at him sitting at the window in his pyjamas and he’s six feet two at fourteen, so maybe the blond stutterer will be right. I don’t want him to be right: John stands out in a crowd enough as it is, with his mashed skin and his limp. I know he simply wants to efface himself, to melt away. How will he do that if he is scarred head and shoulders above the rest of the world?