word.â
âA bit in-your-face?â
âPrecisely. As if he thought Iâd got away with it for long enough, though God knows what I was supposed to have got away with. Iâd have said he was the one getting away with murder. Perhaps he just wants me to suffer because he is suffering.â
We sat in silence for several minutes before I noticed tears on her cheeks.
I moved to take her hand but she shook her head.
âIâm all right, really, Tom. Well, obviously Iâm not all right. But I mean, well . . . this is as much about you as Perry. Itâs just so lovely having someone â you â to talk to when I get back. Itâs always an unpleasant train trip on Sunday nights. Even the passengers annoy me. They seem rowdy, or something â not like the solid citizens on the Friday night train.â
âThis might be in the eye of the beholder, of course.â
âOh, I realise that. Itâs true. Iâm always a bit raw by the time I start the return journey.â
âWhat do you do down there?â
âDo? I wish I knew. I read â the study is my refuge. Sometimes I try to do a bit of marking. I chat to Mrs Hepworth. We talk in murmurs, upstairs or in the garden, as if weâre conspirators. She occasionally goes too far â I donât want to hear about Perryâs carnal adventures with the night nurse, however passive.â
âI thought he had motor neurone disease?â
âLetâs not go into the details, shall we? Thereâs evidently no loss of sexual function â enough said. At least they desist when Iâm in the house. Or I assume they do. Goodness knows what heâs paying her. Plenty of danger money, I hope.â
âBut you can do some work there, by the sound of it.â
âSerious work is impossible. This great anger Perry exudes . . . Iâm on edge the whole time. I feel as if Iâm on red alert, from the moment I arrive. Silly, isnât it? My house, and I feel like that.â
âYou donât strike me as the sort of person to be cowed by this.â
âCowed? Never. I go on the attack. Assert myself in all sorts of childish ways. I play my own music very loudly. Change the channel on his wretched TV sets. Or turn them off sometimes, when I can no longer bear it. I insist on making his Sunday lunch when heâd far rather have the day nurse do it for him. I even read to him, for Godâs sake, though he always closes his eyes so I canât tell if heâs awake or asleep. Thereâs rarely even a grunt of acknowledgement, let alone appreciation.â
I refilled our wine glasses and pondered those contradictions. She couldnât work there, but she did work there. She camped upstairs with only the housekeeper for company, but made Perryâs lunch and read to him. She was intimidated but assertive.
âTom, I hardly know you. Yet I feel as if weâve known each other for years. I find I really can say anything to you. You seem . . . what? Familiar sounds very tame. But your presence here tonight is a real comfort. No, more than a comfort. I feel secure, somehow. So thank you.â
We fell silent for a moment and Sarah consulted her watch.
âAnd now to bed, I think. I need to ring Fox â sheâs always standing by on Sunday nights. Iâll do that from the bedroom.â
We looked at each other.
âSo . . . Monday is my heaviest lecturing day. Iâll be up and off before you need to surface. I have an early breakfast with a couple of colleagues at Kingâs every Monday. Shall we have supper together tomorrow night?â
âLet me cook something. Or would you rather eat out?â
âNo, here would be best. Can you cook?â
I shrugged. âTry me.â
âI should be back about seven. Do you have any plans for tomorrow yourself?â
âA long walk â I might even get to one of the Tates. Iâll do the food