THE HOUSE AT SEA’S END

bacon and eggs, maintaining a steady flow of hostess chatter. Jack is silent, feeding bacon rinds to the dogs. Irene doesn’t put in an appearance. ‘Mother had a bad night,’ explains Stella.
    ‘Jack’s found me some chains for the car,’ says Nelson, still not looking at Ruth. ‘The coast road is clear. We should be able to get through.’
    ‘What about my car?’
    ‘Better leave it here. I’ll have someone pick it up for you. The important thing is to get you home.’
    ‘Yes,’ agrees Ruth.
    ‘We ought to start as soon as possible.’
    ‘Have some coffee first,’ says Stella, taking the pot from the Aga.
    And Ruth feels a curious reluctance to leave. She wants to see Kate, of course she does, but she also wants to stay here, having someone cook for her and make her coffee. She wants to sit by the fire and read the paper. She wants to huddle up on the sofa and look at the snow outside. She wants to be Stella’s daughter. She wants to stay here with Nelson.
    But as soon as Nelson has drunk his coffee he is standing up. ‘Thank you for your hospitality,’ he says formally.
    ‘My dear fellow, don’t mention it,’ says Jack.
    Now that Nelson has become ‘my dear fellow’, thinks Ruth, will it be difficult for him to raise the little fact of Jack’s father being a murderer? She knows that Nelson has the film in his car, along with the diary and the scissors. His next visit to Sea’s End House may turn out to be a verydifferent affair. But Hastings, who yesterday had seemed so shaken by Hugh Anselm’s film, is all charm and smiles. He shakes Ruth’s hand warmly, brushing off her thanks. ‘Any time, my dear. Glad we could help.’
    Ruth turns to Stella. ‘You’ve been so kind.’
    Stella enfolds her in a hug. ‘Come again. Bring your little girl.’
    ‘I will.’
    ‘Come on, Ruth,’ says Nelson, impatient as ever. ‘We’d better get going.’
    The drive to the Saltmarsh is beautiful. The fields are white, glittering in the sun, the trees like a Christmas card. Everything ugly or utilitarian – the municipal dump, the holiday flats, the caravan selling hamburgers – has been covered with this kindly layer of magic. It’s hard to believe that last night the snow had seemed terrifying, a malign force. Now it’s sleigh rides and Santa and Holiday on Ice. They pass some teenagers sledging down a hill on bin liners, children building a snowman in their front garden, a family on their way to church, ears aglow with virtue. Ruth had forgotten that it was Sunday. They do see a few abandoned cars, an upturned bicycle, its wheels still spinning, but otherwise the snow seems delightful, designed purely for fun. The main roads have been gritted and, as they get nearer to King’s Lynn, they see cars and buses. The world is getting back to normal.
    ‘Thaw’s setting in,’ says Nelson. It seems like the first thing he’s said for hours.
    ‘It’s incredible,’ says Ruth. ‘All this snow in April.’ Hermouth feels dry; she doesn’t think she’s ever uttered a more boring sentence.
    They drive in silence across the Saltmarsh. The bleak landscape of stunted trees and wind-blown grass has been transformed and a smooth white terrain unfolds in front of them, like the surface of the moon. The birds are flying lower than usual, desperate for food; occasionally a sandpiper makes a kamikaze dive down into the reed beds and the ducks walk, bemused, on iced-over marsh pools.
    ‘Ruth—’ says Nelson.
    ‘I can’t wait to see Kate,’ gabbles Ruth. ‘It feels like years since I’ve seen her. It was so kind of Judy to drive all this way …’ Her voice fades away.
    ‘Ruth.’ Nelson is stopping the car. Keep driving, Ruth urges him silently. I don’t want to have this conversation now. Ever.
    ‘We’ve got to talk.’
    ‘What about?’ says Ruth.
    ‘Jesus! What about? About everything.’
    ‘There’s nothing to say.’ Ruth fiddles with her seatbelt. Suddenly the car feels far too small. She knows that Nelson is looking at her but, for many reasons, she does not want to meet his eyes.
    ‘Look, Ruth …’ Ruth hears Nelson’s voice gearing down to his persuasive tone. ‘Last night was … well, it shouldn’t have happened.’
    ‘I know,’ says Ruth, looking out of the window. In the far distance, she can see the sea.
    ‘I mean it was … great, but—’
    ‘What do you mean “great”?’
    ‘You know what I mean. If I was single, it would be a different matter. But I’m not.