They walked together for a while, the crunch of their footsteps the only conversation. In 1979, they had stood here as young graduates, full of the radical certainties of the seventies. They had argued about politics, about moving to London, about things that seemed tectonic at the time but now felt as light as sea foam.
"Talking didn't save us," Arthur said quietly. "We just used words to build a different kind of wall." On Chesil Beach
Arthur stood at the crest of the ridge, his boots sinking slightly into the shingle. To his left, the pebbles were the size of peas; miles to his right, at Portland, they would be as large as oranges. He checked his watch. It was July, nearly sixty years since the summer that had defined—and then erased—his future. They walked together for a while, the crunch