For minutes we sat in silence, each of us struggling to process the implications of the photo.
‘But…’ Chris began, then shaking his head he lapsed back into silence. Moments later: ‘It explains why I’m not in the photo.’
‘The resemblance is weird.’
‘Uncanny,’ Chris agreed. ‘And Dad wrote “the boys”. He has to be our brother.’
‘That’s quite a stretch.’ I shook my head and made a face. Chris had always been the imaginative one. ‘He could be anybody.’
‘“The boys”. Not “John and cousin whoever”. “The boys”.’ He paused. ‘And what cousins do we have, anyway?’
I considered what I knew about our parents’ extended families. Dad was an only child. His parents struggled to have children, we were told, and had him when they were in their early forties. They were both long gone. Mum had two sisters. I couldn’t remember much about them.
‘Do you remember Dad having any mates that would bring their kids round to ours for a wee trip?’ I asked.
‘Harry Bone? But I don’t remember him ever popping round with his kids.’
‘Aye, Harry’s a good bit older than Dad. His kids would have been almost grown-ups by the time we were born.’
Chris pulled his phone out and thumbed at the screen. I heard it dial out.
‘Hey babe,’ he said. ‘Something incredibly…’ he paused as if trying to find the word ‘…strange has come up. Mind if I miss dinner tonight? I’m sorry, I hate the idea of you eating on your own, but this is…’
I could hear a tinny voice coming from his phone. Not clearly enough to work out what was being said, but the tone sounded supportive.
‘Thanks, babe. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Love you.’ He hung up. Then without pausing he asked. ‘And how come no one in the village ever asked us about him? I mean if we had a brother, and presumably something happened to him, why did no one ever talk about it?’
‘That’s small towns for you. Closed ranks. Displayed collective amnesia. Our parents didn’t want to go there so no one else did?’
Chris made a face. ‘I can see lots of people complying with that. But all of them?’
‘There’s a simple explanation, surely.’
‘When did Mum and Dad move down here?’ Chris asked. ‘I can remember stories Dad telling us about the characters he grew up with in Glasgow – the gang stuff, the tenements and how he was desperate for a bit of sea air.’
‘The place in the photo is definitely Portencross.’
‘Maybe that was a wee day trip. Maybe they came down here all the time for holidays and stuff, and that’s why they ended up moving here. And maybe that’s why nobody we grew up with knew.’
I could see the sense of that. Something happens and they move to get away from the memories. ‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘I can’t take this in. What the hell’s going on here?’