We dressed in bright-blue cagoules and tried to pretend we preferred wet weather. We’d given Lucy a camera and she took photographs of everything: not only the views and the boats but Coke cans, bits of rope in the road, Martin shaving, the food on her plate in a restaurant, even her own knee. Strangers were commandeered to take snapshots of the three of us together. We took a trip to Lyme Regis and walked on the Cobb, not talking about Greenham at all, and watched various girls with hooded coats trying to look like the French Lieutenant’s Woman each time a wave came over. You could see we were going our separate ways on the return journey by looking in the boot of our clapped-out Volvo: a suitcase for Martin returning to Brighton, a rucksack and camping gear for the intrepid mother and daughter. I packed clothes that didn’t need any maintenance, candles, tins of food, matches, a camping kettle and a couple of sleeping bags. I took lavatory paper and, in a moment of vanity, I threw in some moisturiser and a bit of lipstick.
