But nothing was different. His papers and books still covered his table, his floor. I looked at the painting, still leaning on the ledge where I had seen it last time.

They’re from the same place as the painting. The peaches, I said. Yes, he answered.

And then he looked at me, properly. They are. It’s your place, he said.

Our place, I said, and I regretted immediately saying that.

It’s all of our place, I said. All, all of us. And then I felt close to tears.

He had put the bowl of peaches on top of the small, low fridge, where else to put it?

Please sit down, Jacqueline, here, the chair is for you. There was only the one chair.

But instead of sitting down I said, how long is this going to go on for, Joseph, how long?

He had no hesitation. As long as necessary, Jacqueline, as long as necessary. I could say he looked grim, perhaps that would describe it, but I, I must have looked stricken. I felt stricken.

But will there be a victory, real victory, one day, Joseph, will there? I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it, I said, and then I was overcome. I thought I must leave, and I turned, turned towards the door, the open door behind me.

But he strode across the small room, he reached the door before me and closed it, and he turned and said, stay, stay Jacqueline. Please stay. We can talk, Jacqueline, I can tell you what I’m doing. I can tell you.

I sat down then, in his chair, that hard wooden chair. And he stood, he remained standing, what else could he do? He could sit on the bed, but he didn’t sit on the bed. He could have sat on the floor, but he didn’t sit on the floor. He remained standing. And he spoke, then.

He told me about weapons caches, about military training in Zambia, in Tanzania. About the centres of resistance overseas, in London, and in Dar es Salaam. Dar, they called it. He told me about industrial targets, and he said, again: guerrilla war. It was far past sabotage, now. They had made progress, there was progress, it wasn’t all for nothing.

At that I said, I know, Joseph, I read the paper. I know. You don’t know the half of it, he said. You don’t know the half of it. And: this is meant to reassure you, that’s why I’m telling you, he said.

He stopped then, and looked at me. But I can’t say any more, he said. He looked exhausted.

And then he said: come and lie with me, Jacqueline. He said it so softly I barely heard it.

I stood up. I must go, I said. I walked to him, to where he stood. And then I embraced him, I drew myself to him. I leaned my face against his shoulder, against his shirt: I had so yearned to feel that shirt. He held me then. And we stood like that, just like that, in the still room, for . . . for how long? I don’t know for how long, I don’t know.