affairs and beach stones

I - III

SOMETHING STRANGE IS happening as I write. I keep telling myself that what I am writing is an account explaining my relationship with Harry, and everything else that goes with it. Of course, the everything else – which is actually the point of writing at all – is going to become much more difficult to write about very soon. But I find, unexpectedly, that I'm enjoying myself immensely. My days have the kind of purpose they haven't had since I retired from the school. I'm including all sorts of things, too, which may not be of interest to you, Louis. But I don't care. I want to remember it all, for myself, as well as for you.

And as I write, I wonder if I will ever have the courage to actually read this to you. That has always been my plan, but the closer I get to the everything else, the more unlikely this seems.

You were particularly trying this morning, refusing to look at the television, even though I'd switched it from This Morning, which we both hate, to a rerun of As Time Goes By on BBC2. Don't you like Dame Judi Dench? I thought everyone liked Dame Judi. I thought her combination of classical actressiness and cuddly accessibility (that 'i' in her name says so much, doesn't it?) made her irresistible. And then there was that incident with the liquidised cornflakes, the tipping-over of the bowl, which made Harry exhale a hefty tut. I knew you weren't quite up to sitting at the table for breakfast, even with your special cutlery and all the cushions I'd provided to stabilise you, as Nurse Pamela suggested. I must say I find it difficult to concentrate on what Pamela says, so intrigued am I by the long spikes protruding from her eyelids. I know it's not particularly unusual for plump brunettes in their late twenties to wear false eyelashes, but it's a very strange combination – Pamela's brisk white uniform, her matter-of-fact manner, and her partygoing eyes. She repeatedly informs me that she comes every morning and evening for an hour so I can have what she calls 'time out'. I don't take time out, though, Louis: I use the time to write this. Anyway, it was Pamela

who told me to get you out of bed as often as possible, suggesting that you could join the 'family table' for meals. But I could see your hand was utterly wild as you brought the spoon up to your face this morning, and I wanted to stop you, to reach out and steady your wrist, but you looked at me just before it reached your lips, and your eyes were so alight with something unreadable – at the time I thought it was anger, but now I wonder if it wasn't a plea of some kind – that I was distracted. And so: wham! Over it went, milky slop dribbling into your lap and dripping on Harry's shoes.

Pamela says that hearing is the last of the senses to go in a stroke patient. Even though you have no speech, you have excellent hearing, she says. It must be like being a toddler again, able to comprehend others' words but unable to make your mouth form the shapes necessary to communicate fully. I wonder how long you'll be able to stand it. No one has said anything about this. The phrase 'no one can say' has become detestable to me. How long until he's on his feet, Doctor? No one can say. How long until he'll be able to speak again? No one can say. Will he have another stroke? No one can say. Will he ever recover fully? No one can say. The doctors and nurses all talk of the next steps – physiotherapy, speech therapy, counselling, even, for the depression we've been warned can set in – but no one is prepared to forecast the likelihood of any of it actually working.

My own feeling is that your greatest hope of recovery lies in just being here, under this roof.

Late September 1957. Early morning at the school gates, and the sky still more yellow than blue. Clouds were splitting above the bell tower, wood pigeons were purring their terrible song of longing. Oh-oooh-ooh-oh-oh. And there Harry was, standing by the wall, returned to me.

By then I'd been teaching for a few weeks and had grown more accusHarryed to facing the school day, so my legs were a little sturdier, my breath more controlled. But the sight of Harry made my voice disappear completely.