before the autumn sets in.’
Lillian looked up from her mashed potato and said to me, ‘What are you doing? This weekend?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ I said, pitifully.
‘Then why don’t you come with us?’
My usual doubts and reservations surfaced, but swiftly dissipated when I looked at Jane. Her expression was eager, expectant, and to have declined the offer would have appeared faint-hearted, or even cowardly.
‘Well,’ I ventured, ‘if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course we wouldn’t mind,’ said Lillian. ‘We’ll cycle into Westleton and get the bus.’
The thought of spending a whole day with Jane was somewhat distracting. I spent the remainder of the week in a rather restless state, and in the evenings, when I tried to write up my final Edinburgh experiment, I was unable to concentrate. Instead of working I smoked one cigarette after another and paced up and down the corridor until it was time to go to bed. On Saturday morning, Jane, Lillian and I collected three bicycles from Mr Hartley and we set off across the heath. Although there were more clouds in the sky than we had anticipated, the weather was mild for the season. It did not take us long to reach Westleton, where a publican – already known to Jane and Lillian – allowed us to leave our bicycles in his shed. Thankfully, the bus was on time and when we alighted the clouds had dispersed and the sun was blazing.
Southwold was a pretty seaside town, possessed of a sleepy, provincial charm, and largely free of the tawdry entertainments commonly associated with popular coastal resorts. The backstreets were lined with quaint little cottages and the wide, irregular green was encircled by more distinguished residences, some with wrought-iron balconies and tall, elegant windows. There were two outstanding landmarks: the first was a very large medieval church, the exterior of which was patterned with flint, and the second, a fully operational lighthouse. On a flat, grassy elevation close to the beach, six eighteen-pounder cannons pointed out to sea. The place was called, somewhat unimaginatively, Gun Hill.
We ate lunch at a hotel and drank far too much. When we had finished, Lillian rose from her chair and said that she was going off to do some shopping on the high street. ‘I’ll meet you by the pier in about an hour,’ she added with breezy good humour. After her departure, Jane and I walked back to Gun Hill, where we sat together on a bench. She had put on a pair of sunglasses that made her look glamorous and continental.
I asked her a few questions, mostly about herself, and she warmed to the theme of her own history. Her mother was a schoolteacher and lived in North London. Her father, a pharmacist, had died when she was only thirteen. She disclosed this information without sentimentality. Although her father had died young, his early demise did not result in financial hardship. A wealthy uncle had made sure that the needs of mother and daughter were always met. Jane spoke about her training at St Thomas’s, meeting Lillian, and how much fun they had had going to the Festival of Britain; about a holiday that she had enjoyed in Wales with her cousins, Vanessa and Neville, and her plan to take driving lessons. Her confidences and revelations proceeded with effortless fluency.
My surroundings began to feel strangely unreal. The contrast between the brown sea and the blue sky was striking and otherworldly. A union flag snapped in the breeze and a flock of long-necked birds flew past in a perfect V-formation. I was aware that something had changed, but it took me a few seconds to identify what. Jane had stopped talking. I turned to look at her, and at that precise moment she also turned to look at me. I can remember seeing myself, miniaturized and suspended in her lenses, and watching with fascination as these pale copies of my face began to expand. And then, quite suddenly, we were kissing.
When we finally separated, she took off her
Lillian looked up from her mashed potato and said to me, ‘What are you doing? This weekend?’
‘Oh, nothing much,’ I said, pitifully.
‘Then why don’t you come with us?’
My usual doubts and reservations surfaced, but swiftly dissipated when I looked at Jane. Her expression was eager, expectant, and to have declined the offer would have appeared faint-hearted, or even cowardly.
‘Well,’ I ventured, ‘if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course we wouldn’t mind,’ said Lillian. ‘We’ll cycle into Westleton and get the bus.’
The thought of spending a whole day with Jane was somewhat distracting. I spent the remainder of the week in a rather restless state, and in the evenings, when I tried to write up my final Edinburgh experiment, I was unable to concentrate. Instead of working I smoked one cigarette after another and paced up and down the corridor until it was time to go to bed. On Saturday morning, Jane, Lillian and I collected three bicycles from Mr Hartley and we set off across the heath. Although there were more clouds in the sky than we had anticipated, the weather was mild for the season. It did not take us long to reach Westleton, where a publican – already known to Jane and Lillian – allowed us to leave our bicycles in his shed. Thankfully, the bus was on time and when we alighted the clouds had dispersed and the sun was blazing.
Southwold was a pretty seaside town, possessed of a sleepy, provincial charm, and largely free of the tawdry entertainments commonly associated with popular coastal resorts. The backstreets were lined with quaint little cottages and the wide, irregular green was encircled by more distinguished residences, some with wrought-iron balconies and tall, elegant windows. There were two outstanding landmarks: the first was a very large medieval church, the exterior of which was patterned with flint, and the second, a fully operational lighthouse. On a flat, grassy elevation close to the beach, six eighteen-pounder cannons pointed out to sea. The place was called, somewhat unimaginatively, Gun Hill.
We ate lunch at a hotel and drank far too much. When we had finished, Lillian rose from her chair and said that she was going off to do some shopping on the high street. ‘I’ll meet you by the pier in about an hour,’ she added with breezy good humour. After her departure, Jane and I walked back to Gun Hill, where we sat together on a bench. She had put on a pair of sunglasses that made her look glamorous and continental.
I asked her a few questions, mostly about herself, and she warmed to the theme of her own history. Her mother was a schoolteacher and lived in North London. Her father, a pharmacist, had died when she was only thirteen. She disclosed this information without sentimentality. Although her father had died young, his early demise did not result in financial hardship. A wealthy uncle had made sure that the needs of mother and daughter were always met. Jane spoke about her training at St Thomas’s, meeting Lillian, and how much fun they had had going to the Festival of Britain; about a holiday that she had enjoyed in Wales with her cousins, Vanessa and Neville, and her plan to take driving lessons. Her confidences and revelations proceeded with effortless fluency.
My surroundings began to feel strangely unreal. The contrast between the brown sea and the blue sky was striking and otherworldly. A union flag snapped in the breeze and a flock of long-necked birds flew past in a perfect V-formation. I was aware that something had changed, but it took me a few seconds to identify what. Jane had stopped talking. I turned to look at her, and at that precise moment she also turned to look at me. I can remember seeing myself, miniaturized and suspended in her lenses, and watching with fascination as these pale copies of my face began to expand. And then, quite suddenly, we were kissing.
When we finally separated, she took off her
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