Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart by Stephen Benatar Page B

wireless a good deal, which was all extremely moving. I gaze at her and think, Oh God, just forty-seven and your life is over.
    â€œI wish we could have stayed longer.” The front door comes between a branch of the Home & Colonial and the small Astoria cinema.
    â€œWell…it’s been real nice, ma’am. You’re everything your daughter claimed.”
    â€œAnd more,” I add, “much more. But please go to the doctor, get that checkup. I’ll ring you in a few days to find out what he said.”
    â€œOh, what a nag! Goodbye, my darling. God bless you. Remember me to Trixie.” She gives me a hug. “Goodbye, Matthew. This has been such a pleasure. God bless you. Good luck.” She gives him first a handshake; that too becomes a hug. “You’re going to be so late.” Another hug for me—this time an especially long one, as though she really can’t bear to let us go. “But no, it doesn’t matter if you’re late, just so long as you get there in the end. Take care.”
    Then Matt hands me into the jeep. She remains on the pavement, waving, until we’ve turned the corner by the Food Office.

11
    For this evening’s supper I’ve prepared only a salad but Tom comes into the apartment—or, rather, into the kitchen—brandishing a bottle.
    â€œSouthwold!” he says.
    â€œWell, fine. Is that better than Bordeaux?”
    â€œOh, most amusing. How would you fancy a day out in Suffolk?”
    At the table he elaborates. “And here’s something else. I went to school with a bloke who hosts a TV show on Anglia every Saturday; and although of course it’s pre-recorded, what’s a mere thirty-second insert, in the name of helping out a friend?”
    It turns out that he means tomorrow.
    He actually means tomorrow…
    We get to Southwold just before noon. From the moment we cross the causeway over Buss Creek and Tom tells me ‘buss’ means a square-rigged herring smack—he’s clearly done his homework—the last of my reservations has gone. I love the Georgian houses and the fishermen’s colour-washed dwellings; the long sandy beach and little harbour. The town is built on a cliff-top and its views take in bracken, heath and marshes, as well as the sea. Side streets widen into large green spaces, one of which contains six cannon; another a white lighthouse. Outside an inn, barrels of ale are being lifted from a dray. The drayhorse responds with endearing nuzzles to my overtures of friendship.
    I tell him I’ll bring him sugar from the bar. Before we get there, Tom asks about overnight accommodation and we’re lucky, they do have one remaining room. Anywhere else would have been a letdown. The Red Lion dates from 1623 and began life as a hostel for mariners.
    Following lunch we visit the fifteenth-century church, which must be one of the great ones, Tom says, even for Suffolk. We look at the spot where long ago she posed for a photograph, this woman who’s the reason for our being here now. I experience a pang of regret. Almost of shame. Why so much resistance—yes, all along the line—to our trying to find her?
    What in God’s name was I afraid of? What devil has been aiming to prevent me?
    There’s a little wooden man in armour: an unusual, fascinating timekeeper. While I’m admiring him and just about to call across to Tom something rather strange happens.
    â€œTom! Hey! Tom!”
    He’s been gazing at the brightly painted pulpit and looks around inquiringly.
    But now I feel a bit foolish.
    â€œOh, nothing. It’s just that I suddenly thought I must have been here before. Sorry.”
    Afterwards we go to a men’s outfitter’s, where I choose a pair of trunks; Tom has brought his. We walk down to the beach, which at a closer view turns out to be composed less of sand than of shingle. The water’s cold but lovely. I feel free, cleansed,