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For recuperation, after the first treatment, they went to Brighton, his parents had moved to Brighton, retired, from Ewell, to the coast, near Brighton, Peacehaven, was it, the name, ah, near there, forget the name of the place, not a village, exactly, new bungalows spreading cankerously over the cliffs, ribboned along the main road near the sea's edge. They met me at Brighton station, his father driving, Tony looking just the same, but tired, perhaps, not talking as much as we used to. The bungalow was on an unmade road, the development was that new, though their bungalow was not, fields round about, as they were, the tiny car lurched along the tracks. His father was a gardener, dedicated to it, I know, the lawn outside the gate was very fine, close-shaven, neat, as well as the lawn and beds inside, the flowers and glasshouses at the back.                             For them it was hard, in many ways, just when that they had achieved some financial independence, they should be forced to go back to living with their parents, told me, first hers, now his, however kind they were, and they were kind, well-disposed, to them. They had a room, a double bed, the baby's cot, to themselves, and there was telly to watch, and walks to be taken, when they wanted, up on the Downs, as far as they wanted, they used to go for very long walks, they told me, up on the Downs, they would sometimes talk about what would happen if the worst happened. And there was a dog too, a black and white mongrel, overfed, but lovable enough. The first evening I took Tony off to a pub, I think, I'm not sure, it's what I would have done or tried to do in any case, I did not want things to be any different, because of his illness, no, I did not want there to be any difference, in my attitude, or that he thought I was treating him any differently, than before, than when he had not had the tumour. But it was difficult, for me, because he looked just the same, he looked the same as usual, apart from seeming tired, from lacking energy, and I had brought what I had done of my new novel with me, for his help, but he said he was still having difficulty in reading, he could not find the energy for that even, or could not concentrate well enough, I never knew exactly which, it made me impatient more than once, perhaps unjustifiably impatient, it was difficult to understand, really, and the object of such impatience, anger even, could only be Tony himself, the bearer of the disease, not the disease itself, as for the deity, ha! That this thing could just come from nowhere, from inside himself, of his very self, to attack him, to put his self in danger, I still do not understand. Perhaps there is nothing to be understood, perhaps understanding is simply not to be found, is not applicable to such a thing. But it is hard, hard, not to try to understand, even for me, who accept that all is nothing, that sense does not exist. We must have talked in the pub                                Can't remember anything we said, but something must have been discussed about the novel. The pub was on the cliffs, neon signs, a jukebox.              Nothing else?                      Nothing else.                                  Yes, I drove, he was not strong enough, or confident enough, to drive, for some reason, again I could not understand, but I did not drive so often then, I had no car of my own, that I did not welcome the opportunity of driving to the pub. And the next day I drove as well, when we went into Brighton one afternoon to look at the bookshops, which Tony loved to do, it was one of his favourite ways of spending time, always looking for bargains, I suppose, why? I bought The Ginger Man there, it had just come out in paperback, though I read it a long while ago, when it was first reviewed, I borrowed it from a library, I am ashamed to say. Wandering around Brighton was enervating for me, too, I could see Tony tired very easily, June, I do not remember how June was, apart from the same as ever, calm, tall, elegantly unglamorous, honest, realistic, infinitely supporting.

In the evening of one of the days we all three went to some too-pretty Sussex village for a drink, drank in a self-consciously old pub where every manifestation of age was coated and preserved so well that it was undistinguished, hardly distinguishable from modern imitations, the people, too, ha, you felt they never farted, these sort of Sussex people.                        After dark was better, as we left, or dusk, was it, the lamps, wet roads, it had rained since we had gone in, twigs, blooms, branches smashed on the tarred and gritty road from the chestnut tree under which I had parked the car, the sweet smell, the whole like a film-set, the chimney-stacks, thatched roofs, yes.

I was still then troubled, burdening them with my troubles, which were Wendy, still Wendy, or rather the failure to find anyone to replace her, be as good as she was, or as I had thought she was, had made her out to be, for my own purposes, no doubt, and no doubt I was boring these two, as I remember they were rather sharp about it, by then they had had three or more years of my lamenting the loss of Wendy, on and off, my failure, her defection, and this I think was the occasion when they said so, but gently, and it did me a lot of good, helped me to understand that it was the loss I wanted, the self-suffering, not her, or I would surely have gone out and found her again and made it work. And this helped, they made me realize it was true, yes, and paradoxically it freed me from her, Wendy, or rather from the suffering, and that and the coincidence of Ginnie, later, and the new novel, marriage, freed me from her and what she had done, for good, for good, finally. This I remember took place the first night there in his parents' bungalow, in the front room, television room, where I was to sleep on a put-u-up, in front of the fire, why would there have been a fire, in midsummer? Was there a fire? And records, there were, God Rest Ye Merry by the MJQ, I bought it for myself when I went home, I liked it so much, whose loyalties were usually only to Oliver and Morton, I liked it so much.

One of the mornings, there were only two, as I remember, a short visit, for then, I drove us, just Tony and I, down to a beach he thought well of, chalk, there were great lumps of what looked like chalk scattered around, on the path down, but which turned out to be white plastic foam boulders, for a film, Tony told me, there was not enough chalk about on these Downs for them so they brought their own, it was now beginning to be pitted by rain, and discoloured, and these false boulders were particularly to be found about halfway down the shoulder of the valley, near a house on the edge of the cliff, or nearly on the edge, in the front garden of the house, in fact, as though they had been collecting them, as though they thought foam chalk boulders better than plastic gnomes, in fact, perhaps.              The steep path ended, joined the beach, just where the Downs were chopped off to become cliffs, and the beach was slimy chalk-white, and the sea milky, in places, the beach littered with rubber and plastic and tin rejectamenta, the offthrown, ah. And the river from the valley, the little stream, rather, ran down through the rocks and flint pebbles and chalklumps of the beach, its estuary and mouth, all so unimpressive, or do I invent? Was there any sign of a stream there? It is so easy to invent, by mistake, not remember what was there, what is truly remembered? Tony I remember clearly on the beach, big, in a loose cardigan, thick-framed glasses which he adjusted with his thumb and indexfinger extended, on either hinge, a typical gesture of his, one of those movements by which one knows a person, by which they are characterized, by which they are themselves: and his hands in his pockets, like me, probably in reaction against always being told to take them out, as a schoolboy, funny, that does not these days seem to be so much of a stigma, so much of a sign of sloth, as it was, but perhaps that is because I am no longer a schoolboy to be told it, ah.                          Tony sat down, it must have been on a breakwater, I think, there was nowhere else to sit, all was chalk, slimy, or else it was on grass at the edge of the beach, but he was tired, then, at walking down, I realized later, that he should want to sit down at the end of the downhill part. No doubt I wandered down to the water by myself, tasted it to see if it were salt, I always do, I expect it was, it always has been when I have tasted it, but next time, eh, the chalk would not kill the saltness, I think, no. But when we began to walk back up again Tony very quickly became tired, until he could go no farther, and sat down on the grass, asking me if I would bring the car down to him, that he would not be able to make it to the top, that I should ask at the house near the cliff for the key to a gate, a car barrier, for people had to leave their cars at the top, to preserve the amenities, but as the people in the house had a car, brought theirs down, they would have a key. And the man very courteous, walked with me to the top, saw it was opened and locked again, then rode down with me in the small, upright car, helped Tony in, he was sitting with tea the woman had given him, all in, and I started carefully and I thought luckily on the shiny grass, on a steep slope, with we two heavyweights up. Again I could not understand his tiredness, accepted that he was tired, but he looked the same, he looked the same, for the first time I realized it was serious, it was inside him, unseen, he looked the same, outwardly.