I was too proud to beg him to speak to me, to demand that he explain what I had done that was so terrible, but after the meal, I went into the bathroom and closed the door behind me and cried a little. We watched television together, still in silence. We went to bed with him still silent. He didn’t even murmur goodnight as he turned his light off, and I didn’t dare.

In the morning, he stayed in bed when I rose. I dressed hurriedly. I considered leaving him a note on the kitchen counter, saying – what? I was sorry? How could I be sorry when I didn’t understand what I had done?

I thought of how, when I had come home from the lunch, I had been momentarily surprised to see him in his T-shirt and boxers. He must have come home from work and showered. It occurred to me to wonder if he had been at work at all, and then I shook my head as I walked to school. Why would he lie about that, and why invent that awful story about a child’s face being stitched? Was I going a bit mad?

*

One of the good things about being a teacher is that you are so busy with pupils, concentrating so hard on making sure they don’t burn the place down and maybe even learn something, that you don’t have time to dwell much on how your weekend has been. I had a free period just before lunchtime, though, and the minute my pupils scrambled for the door, I sat down on my chair behind my desk as if winded, and thoughts of what had happened at home the day before crowded into my head. Why wouldn’t he speak to me for the rest of the day? Even if I was completely in the wrong about what I had or hadn’t said – did I deserve the silent treatment to that extent?

I stood up. It was important to keep busy and luckily I was. I went to the reception desk, to talk to Lynda about a girl in my class called Jane who had refused to enter the school that morning. She had gone behind the counter and sat weeping and demanded that Lynda called her mum. I needed some more details before I spoke to Jane’s form tutor.