It was the I suppose that finally broke her heart: she understood then that hearts break. It was almost sulky, as if he were trapped; she knew then that this was real, and it was over.

She loved him too much, she could not trap him, they would never recover.

She tried to control her breathing. ‘I just mean that I love you,’ she said more quietly, ‘that’s all.’

He never wore anything in bed; his bare shoulder was wet with her tears. She fell into a fitful sleep finally; his pillow then was wet with his own.

For some reason not clear to either of them, they ended up on a train to Hastings the next day. They walked along by the sea in the cold, icy wind, Molly walked as if to walk out pain, Banjo pulled his coat around him, felt in his pocket for a joint.

Finally they sat in an empty beach café with plastic ashtrays and coffee made with warm milk. Molly couldn’t talk without tears running down her cheeks but tried still to make sense of it all.

‘I know you’re right,’ she said, ‘of course I do. I’ve seen all your friends having children, I’ve seen you with them, I know it’s got harder and harder.’

He stared at cigarette burns on the table and the faded check of the plastic tablecloth. ‘I’ve tried Moll,’ he said, ‘I tried to think how it would be, them all having kids except me, how you and I would go and visit and smile.’

‘I know,’ she said and tears kept falling into the coffee. ‘I know.’ She tried to warm her hands around the cup. ‘There’s no role model for us, we don’t know anyone who’s done it, lived it successfully. Maybe it would never work out for anyone. Of course it works,’ she added bitterly, ‘if the man is old. But not the woman.’

She had known of course for months and months and months that it would end. And she saw that he had another happiness waiting, that made him strong, in this.

‘Is she young?’ said Molly.

‘Yes,’ said Banjo, ‘she’s much younger than me,’ seeming not to hear the irony of it.

‘But not twenty years?’

He looked shocked. ‘Of course not twenty years,’ he said. Round and round he turned the plastic ashtray and he did not look at her.

‘How did you meet her?’

‘Oh – music, you know.’

‘Have you known her for a long time?’

The ashtray stopped turning. ‘Actually,’ said Banjo, ‘I’ve known her as long as I’ve known you.’

Molly put her face in her hands.

*

When they got home they bought fish and chips in the High Street, walked home in the clear, cold evening air.

Molly relied on every ounce of strength she’d ever had, ever built up, every ounce of strength she had ever possessed.