Sitting here, writing to my husband in Africa, rereading his last letter and then transcribing these pages of diary very nearly word for word, I ask myself who I’m writing this account for. For anyone in particular? For anyone at all? Perhaps for my husband, who knows so much of it already. But there may be something peculiarly enjoyable in reading something one already knows, particularly if it’s a beloved person’s version of events, just as there is in rereading a book one is long familiar with. I read Jane Eyre at school, I did it for my GCSEs (called O-levels then), and it’s bringing me far more pleasure the second time around. Don’t think for a moment that I’m comparing myself to Charlotte Brontë. The only parallel between her writings and mine is in the pain and suffering. So neither can be an entirely pleasurable read, I fear.

Still, we had had no unhappiness in our relationship up till then, Silver and I. Misery and discontent were for others. The occasional presence in the flat of pretty Judy cast only a faint shadow at first, as perhaps for Silver did Guy Wharton. From him I hadn’t heard for weeks, not surprising really since he’d no idea where I was. What became of the few letters which must have been sent to me at old Mrs. Fisherton’s? Beryl never saw any. I asked her. So were they never taken down the staircase to the basement? If I thought about it, and I didn’t much, I supposed that Max or Selina forwarded my post to Suffolk. But this wasn’t so either. With a strange unaccountable (then) vindictiveness, they must have destroyed everything.

I encountered Guy by chance, walking around the Clifton Nursery. The weather had cooled a little, it had rained, and Mrs. Houghton wanted shrubs planted. I suggested a solanum and a climbing hydrangea, believing erroneously that my reading had made me an expert. Guy was at the counter paying for a potted plant and a birthday card. He said he was going out to lunch and the plant was for his hostess but since he was staying at his South Kensington flat and the lunch party was in Pimlico, it seemed unnecessarily out of his way. I wondered, though it was only romantic guesswork, if he had come on the off chance of seeing me. For all I knew, he paid frequent visits to Maida Vale with that end in view. His obvious delight at seeing me made it quite likely.

We walked down to the canal and sat on a seat in the gardens at the top of Warwick Avenue. Because it was windy as well as sunny the water sparkled and danced. The houseboats bore their loads of flowers in tubs and boxes, lush by then and overgrown. Guy said, “I wrote to you a couple of times.”