ever made to him, and he knew it would be the last. Now they slept with Timmy’s cot wedged between the partition and his bed. Sometimes in the night, wakeful because the child had stirred, he would put out his hands and clasp the bars and long to shake this frail barrier that symbolized the unbridgeable gulf between them. She lay there, sleek and curved as a fish or a gull, so close that he could hear the rise and fall of her breath faintly echoing the suspiration of the sea. His body ached for her, and he would press his face into the lumpy pillow, groaning with the hopelessness of his need. What could she possibly see in him to make her want him, except, as on that one night, out of gratitude, pity, curiosity or boredom? He hated his body, the scrawny legs on which the kneecaps protruded like deformities, the small blinking eyes too closely set, the sparse beard which couldn’t disguise the weakness of the mouth and chin. Sometimes, too, he was tormented by jealousy. Without proof he had convinced himself that there was someone else. She would say that she wanted to walk alone on the headland. And he would watch her go with the certainty that she was meeting a lover. And when she returned he would imagine that he could see the glow of the skin, the satisfied smile of remembered happiness, could almost smell that she had been making love.
He had already heard from the university that his research grant wouldn’t be extended. The decision wasn’t surprising; he had been warned to expect it. He had been saving as much as possible from the grant in the hope of amassing a small sum which would tide him over until he could find a local job. It hardly mattered what. Anything that would pay enough to live and allow him to remain on the headland to carry on the campaign. In theory, he supposed he could organize PANUP from anywhere in the U.K., but he knew that it was irrevocably bound to Larksoken headland, to the caravan, to that concrete mass five miles to the north which had power, apparently, to dominate his will as it did his imagination. He had already put out feelers with local employers, but they hadn’t been too keen on employing a well-known agitator; even those who seemed sympathetic to the anti-nuclear cause didn’t actually have work on offer. Perhaps they feared that too many of his energies would be diverted to the campaign. And his small capital was draining away with the extra expense of Amy, Timmy and even the cats. And now there was the threat of this libel action, less of a threat than a certainty.
When, ten minutes later, he returned to the caravan, Amy, too, had given up working. She was lying on her bed looking up at the ceiling, Smudge and Whisky curled on her stomach.
Looking down at her, he said abruptly: “If the Robarts legal action goes ahead I’ll need money. We’re not going to be able to go on as we are. We’ve got to make plans.”
She sat up smartly and stared at him. The kittens, affronted, squealed their protest and fled.
“You mean we might have to leave here?”
The “we” would normally have lifted his heart; now he hardly noticed it.
“It’s possible.”
“But why? I mean, you aren’t going to find anything cheaper than the caravan. Try getting a single room for two pounds a week. We’re bloody lucky to have this place.”
“But there’s no work here, Amy. If I have huge damages to pay I’ll have to get a job. That means London.”
“What sort of a job?”
“Any sort. I’ve got my degree.”
“Well, I can’t see the sense of leaving here even if there isn’t any work. You can go to the DHSS. Draw the dole.”
“That isn’t going to pay damages.”
“Well, if you have to go maybe I’ll stay on. I can pay the rent here. After all, what’s the difference to the owner? He’ll get his two quid, whoever pays it.”
“You couldn’t live here alone.”
“Why not? I’ve lived in worse places.”
“On what? What would you do for money?”
“Well,
He had already heard from the university that his research grant wouldn’t be extended. The decision wasn’t surprising; he had been warned to expect it. He had been saving as much as possible from the grant in the hope of amassing a small sum which would tide him over until he could find a local job. It hardly mattered what. Anything that would pay enough to live and allow him to remain on the headland to carry on the campaign. In theory, he supposed he could organize PANUP from anywhere in the U.K., but he knew that it was irrevocably bound to Larksoken headland, to the caravan, to that concrete mass five miles to the north which had power, apparently, to dominate his will as it did his imagination. He had already put out feelers with local employers, but they hadn’t been too keen on employing a well-known agitator; even those who seemed sympathetic to the anti-nuclear cause didn’t actually have work on offer. Perhaps they feared that too many of his energies would be diverted to the campaign. And his small capital was draining away with the extra expense of Amy, Timmy and even the cats. And now there was the threat of this libel action, less of a threat than a certainty.
When, ten minutes later, he returned to the caravan, Amy, too, had given up working. She was lying on her bed looking up at the ceiling, Smudge and Whisky curled on her stomach.
Looking down at her, he said abruptly: “If the Robarts legal action goes ahead I’ll need money. We’re not going to be able to go on as we are. We’ve got to make plans.”
She sat up smartly and stared at him. The kittens, affronted, squealed their protest and fled.
“You mean we might have to leave here?”
The “we” would normally have lifted his heart; now he hardly noticed it.
“It’s possible.”
“But why? I mean, you aren’t going to find anything cheaper than the caravan. Try getting a single room for two pounds a week. We’re bloody lucky to have this place.”
“But there’s no work here, Amy. If I have huge damages to pay I’ll have to get a job. That means London.”
“What sort of a job?”
“Any sort. I’ve got my degree.”
“Well, I can’t see the sense of leaving here even if there isn’t any work. You can go to the DHSS. Draw the dole.”
“That isn’t going to pay damages.”
“Well, if you have to go maybe I’ll stay on. I can pay the rent here. After all, what’s the difference to the owner? He’ll get his two quid, whoever pays it.”
“You couldn’t live here alone.”
“Why not? I’ve lived in worse places.”
“On what? What would you do for money?”
“Well,