You write on the anniversary of Julian’s birthday. You are the only one to remember. I sit with your card on my knee and think about my children. Angelica is staying with Bunny, Quentin is in London; Duncan is working as a war artist in Plymouth and I do not expect him home. Though there has been no announcement as yet I know that Bunny will marry Angelica. Despite your words of comfort, I feel utterly bereft. I stare out of the sitting room window and watch the clouds scuttle across the sky. There seems little point in going on.

I put the key into the ignition and feel a flicker of hope as the engine pulses into action. I have to see you. I do not care that I am using my last ration of petrol. I have to tell you that I cannot be held to a promise I made when the circumstances of my life were very different.

I keep the car to a steady speed as I drive through the lanes. The trees cast dappling patterns onto the surface of the road. As I pull up in front of your house, the great elms, the ones you call Leonard and Virginia, wave to me in greeting. To my relief, you are alone.

I gaze round your sitting room in astonishment. There are boxes, piles of books, scattered papers everywhere. Then I remember that your London house has been bombed and realize that these must have come from the wreckage.

“Was the damage very bad?” I ask.

You kneel beside a box, and begin to remove the contents. You do not look at anything but simply add what you find to the avalanche already accumulating on your floor.

“Oh, everything smashed. Furniture, paintings, rugs—all destroyed. The books and papers were almost the only things that survived.” You blow a thick layer of dust from a book. “As you see, even they aren’t completely unscathed.”

“Don’t you think it would be better to leave them in the boxes?”

You look at me as if I am mad.

“Oh no, I have to get everything out.”

“I’m sorry about the house.”

“Don’t be. In many ways it’s a relief to be free of all those possessions. I’ve made discoveries too.” You rummage in the pile beside you and pull out a notebook. “Look, here’s the diary I kept while I was writing To the Lighthouse.” You leaf through the pages, pausing to read some of the passages silently to yourself.

“Billy, there’s something I want to say.” I hesitate for a moment. “I . . . can’t go on any longer.”

You glance up. I watch your pupils dilate with fear. Instead of answering, you dive back into your box and bring out a packet of letters.

“Ah, these are the letters you wrote to me just before Thoby was born.”