He sounded smooth and assured as he talked about genetics and biostatistics, wearing a deep navy blazer with distinctive white stripes and that full moustache – it was almost a surprise he wasn’t holding a pipe. He was something of a celebrity already, being such close friends with Aldous Huxley, but it took me a moment to realise what he meant when he started going on about ectogenesis. I hadn’t read Brave New World – for the best, I’d say. So as he talked about external wombs and selective breeding and child production rates I thought to myself, no, no, that’s all wrong – that’s such a man’s way of seeing a woman’s world. It’s never going to be about mass production in all the symmetrical sterility of a laboratory. Human beings, if nothing else, need to feel like individuals. Don’t you see? Any change must allow for individuals to remain an intrinsic part of their own reproduction, or it will fail. I wanted to create a liberating form of pregnancy. A genuine equality. A more reliable bond between parent and child. In that moment, I realised that my work was intensely personal. That was why I was the one who would succeed.

I was single-minded in my aims, back then – you’ve seen it for yourself. I’m not like that any more. Not sure if it’s old age or new wisdom, to be honest. But things do seem to have spiralled out of control since I last spoke to you.

It was one of those crisp-as-frost days. The sun was giving out the unnatural sort of light that appears up here – an exaggerated form of colour that takes over the world. The rocks past the gorse were glowing in it, sparkling like quartz rather than coarse battered sandstone. I had gone walking along the coast, thinking myself quite alone until I saw that big green van parked outside my lighthouse, clearly visible against the flat outcrop that is the extended finger of my peninsula.

I thought, there is no need to rush, he’s early and will leave my delivery outside the front door. But I turned and began walking back to the lighthouse anyway. The downpour from the day before was still visible in the muddy puddles along the track, in the smell of marsh that seemed more intense than usual. It felt wrong, in that light … in the dry clarity of the day. And as I watched, the van did not leave.