‘God! Sorry, I mean . . . wow, he looked like his dad.’
‘The image of him, isn’t he?’
In the photograph, Alex is sitting on his father’s shoulders, they’re wearing matching red and white striped football scarves.
‘How old was he there?’
‘I’m guessing about four, love. Bruce would be about thirty there, same age as Alex was when he . . . you know.’
Audrey glances towards the urn, sitting on the mantelpiece. A discreet pewter cylinder engraved with Alex’s name and the dates of his birth and death. Its cold presence is unsettling, and I don’t know how Audrey can bear having it in such a conspicuous position. Maybe it helps her feel close to her son.
She turns a page in the album. ‘Problem with these digital cameras,’ she says, ‘is you never actually print anything. Not enough anyway. I don’t think I’ve any pictures of you and him together, for example.’
‘I’ve got a few. I’ll send you some before I go.’
‘Thank you, love. Nervous?’
I nod. ‘Very. Excited, though.’
‘I think you’re very brave going all that way on your own.’
Audrey doesn’t know about Henry. Despite what she said in her email to Alex, about life being for loving, it feels too soon to tell her that the process is already under way.
‘Thank you, I . . . I don’t feel brave.’
Audrey takes hold of my hand. ‘You’ll be fine. And thank you for coming, it means a lot to me.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,’ I tell her. ‘It’s been . . . tough, weird . . .’
‘I know, darling. And you’re sure about staying tonight?’
‘Yeah, positive. And anyway, we’ll never get through all these in an afternoon, will we?’
‘That’s true. Now look at this.’ A picture of Alex, maybe five, posing with a toy guitar.
‘He loved music,’ I say.
‘He did.’ Audrey wipes her eyes.
‘Cup of tea, love?’
‘Want me to make it?’
‘Thank you, love. But if I sit too long, my knees seize up. I was sixty in July, can you believe it?’
‘You don’t look it,’ I say, and Audrey waves the platitude away.
‘I look a lot older, love. Pat and Aggy got me a facial for my birthday, I don’t think the poor woman knew where to start.’
I feel like a fraud, sitting here and pretending this information is new to me when I read it in the emails Audrey sent to her dead son. I almost tell her, but it would serve no purpose other than to embarrass us both. And the same goes for the ring Alex hid under our floorboards, even more so. Some secrets should never be told, and if I could make myself unknow this particular piece of tragedy I’d do it without a second thought.
‘How’d you take it?’ Audrey asks.
‘Milk, no sugar, please.’
‘Coming right up. And tonight, I think we should drink a bottle of wine. What do you think about that?’
‘I think it’s an excellent idea. Maybe I could cook us something.’
‘You will not. I’ll cook and you can keep my glass full.’
‘Just as well,’ I say. ‘I’m a lousy cook.’
Audrey puts a hand to my face. ‘You’re a good girl,’ she says, stroking my cheek with her thumb. ‘I’m glad Alex found you.’
I nod, because it’s all I’m capable of at the moment. Audrey nods back, wipes her eyes and goes through to the kitchen.
While Audrey is making tea, I close the album and go across to the fireplace. The urn is as cold to the touch as the eye. ‘Hey,’ I say, under my breath, tracing my finger over his engraved name. ‘Hey.’