The Northern Clemency by Philip Hensher

been struck by the hair on his body; the little tufty patch between his nipples, almost circular, not quite amounting to a hairy chest. He turned now, and there was the other patch she’d not known anyone could have, a rough growth at the bottom of his spine, a monkey flourish. He wasn’t a hairy man; he’d not have a thick beard if he grew one. She noticed now that the rest of his back, which used to be spotty, was now lightly furred. Odd, the way you went on changing as you got older; that was what ageing meant.
    He had an order to things: after the shirt, he took off his trousers, then his socks—his thin white legs! Then he put on his pyjama top, fastening one or two of the buttons, before taking his underpants off. Beneath the hem of the pyjamas, the little purplish tip of his penis, dangling absurdly; she’d had no idea about the penis, apart from Michelangelo’s David , and it had seemed long and thin, ugly with veins, a little bit sad, always had. It was something she’d read men worried about. Just then the possibility of sex came to her; she’d creamed her face, but she could wipe it off, strip her nightdress from her; her husband could take off his pyjamas again, and then, all that. It hadn’t been very much like that, ever; she didn’t know why she thought of it like that now. We could get flowers for the house, she thought. All the time; even in the bedroom. Nick, in her head, handed a huge bunch of unsold lilies to her, bearded, solemn, pagan. My life is on the point of change, she said.
    And then Malcolm got into bed, and reached for his own book. For fifteen minutes, he read about the English Civil War; for fifteen minutes, before they put the lights out, she read, with less concentration, about an uninvolving girl called Pierrette in a château in Provence.
    Although she had started work, Katherine’s morning routine remained the same. From the first morning, she took out a more careful outfit, though, one she’d decided on the night before: a neat jacket with a floral scarf, a pussy-bow tied at the neck. When the weather worsened, she would wear a poncho over it; she’d found and bought a purple one in Debenhams, the end of the week before. She’d sneakedit into the wardrobe, and if Malcolm noticed, she’d say, “Oh—this? I don’t wear it often, I know.” He often didn’t notice. It was her money, she reminded herself.
    When she arrived, Nick was already in the shop, the flowers in the boxes. It was fifteen minutes before opening time, and when she rapped on the door, smiling, he looked up, first surprised and then, oddly, relieved—had he thought she wouldn’t turn up?
    “I realized,” he said, letting her in, the key fumbling in the thick chamois leather of his glove, “I don’t have your telephone number. I forgot to ask.” He locked the door behind her.
    “I’ll write it down for you,” Katherine said. “Now. Where have we got to?”
    “Well, let’s see,” he said. “First things first. A cup of coffee. I’m dying for one.”
    He started to pull off his gloves. He was nervous in some way; after all, it was a new business, the flower shop.
    “Let me,” Katherine said. “You carry on with what you’re doing. Where are the things?”
    “I bought a mug for you,” he said. “And the milk’s in the fridge. I remembered to get it on my way in.”
    “I tell you what,” she said, “let’s have a kitty, and I’ll be in charge of the coffee and biscuits. I’ll need to know about your favourites.”
    “I can see we’re going to get on,” Nick said, going back to stripping the stems of the yellow roses. “My favourite biscuits. Well, I like those pink ones, wafers. Or Iced Gems.”
    “My son likes those,” Katherine said. “My younger son.”
    “They’re not a very grown-up sort of biscuit,” Nick said. “I’m sorry for that. But I don’t think I could face the austerity of Rich Tea.”
    “My nan liked those,” Katherine said. “My grandmother. She