“I’m not your conscience,” she said, her voice rising. “You want me to give you permission to break my heart and go back to Gretchen? Well I won’t. Or perhaps you want me to beg you to throw her and Margaret aside for me? I won’t do that, either.”

She had never spoken so furiously to him, or anyone. The effort left her breathless. Her face burned.

“You’re quite right,” he replied, startled by this outburst. “I’m sorry, Jean. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He pulled her to him and kissed her hot cheeks and then her lips.

If I fought for him, I could win, thought Jean. I know I could. But it would be Margaret whose face I was grinding under my heel.

“I must get back to work,” she said, disengaging herself from his grasp. “Perhaps it’s just as well we can’t see each other this weekend.”

“Can’t we?” Howard sounded stricken.

“You’re going to Aunt Edie’s. And I can’t leave Mother overnight.”

“Oh yes. Damn.”

“We’ll talk again when you’ve had a chance to think and when you’ve spoken to Gretchen, and you can let me know what you’ve decided. I won’t make a fuss, so don’t worry.”

She had recovered her composure now, for the moment, and sounded like her idea of a sensible, rational woman. She would collapse later, she promised herself, between seven and seven-thirty, when she had got home from work and done her chores.

36

Jean’s last visit to Broadstairs had been in the height of summer. Today, on a wet afternoon in late November, it had that air of melancholy and neglect particular to seaside resorts out of season. The pavements were deserted; the ice-cream kiosks boarded up; shop windows misted with condensation; the sea slate gray.

She didn’t like riding her bicycle in the rain, so she had left it at home this time and taken a taxi from the station to Anselm House, formerly St. Cecilia’s. It was founder’s day and the boys had a half-holiday, so the school was quiet.

“You can wander around at your leisure this time,” said Susan Trevor, who had arranged the appointment with just this in mind. The headmaster was attending a memorial service for a former colleague; a few schoolmasters were in the staffroom playing bridge; most had gone home early. “Pop in when you’ve finished and we’ll have a cup of tea.”

Jean could tell Mrs. Trevor was the sort who had plenty to say and relished the opportunity of a fresh audience. Jean thanked her and made her way across the small entrance hall, past the trophy cabinet and the wooden boards displaying the names of past heads of school and house captains and cricket captains, picked out in gilt.

According to the floor plan marked up by Martha, the ward occupied by Gretchen and the other girls was on the ground floor, now a changing room. There were wire lockers around the walls, containing various balled-up items of sports equipment, lone rugby boots and grass-smeared cricket pads. There was a slightly feral smell of unwashed clothes and unwashed boys.