Afterwards, they drift down the mountainside and along the pavements towards home. William watches, hands deep in his pockets, his thumbnail catching on the loose lining.

The vivid grass tufting down the middle of the lane is so bright it seems to be singing to him, its pointed blades distinct and intense. And the phone box, the reddest of reds, shouts out to him at the turn of the path. He pulls a threepenny bit from his pocket.

It’s colder inside the phone box than out; the air is dank and solid. The click-click-click-click of the dial grinding back into position, the distant purr of the dialling tone – all of it particular and sharp in the enclosed space. At the shrill pips, William pushes the coin into the slot.

‘William? Is that you? Are you all right?’

William tastes his stale breath bouncing back from the heavy Bakelite. ‘I’m fine.’

‘We’ve been out of our minds,’ Robert says, ‘where are you?’

‘Aberfan.’

There is a pause. ‘The funerals.’

‘Yep.’

‘You sure you’re all right?’

‘I think so.’ The silence, William knows, is his uncle’s wariness of giving advice, being overly parental. ‘I sang to them.’

‘What did you sing?’ The urgent pips cut in between them and William fumbles in his pocket to find another coin, shoving it in with numb fingers. ‘Hello?’ Robert says.

‘Hello.’

‘What did you sing to them?’

‘“Myfanwy”.’ The pause is so long William breaks it. ‘Uncle Robert?’

‘Lucky them,’ he says eventually, ‘I bet they thought it was beautiful.’

‘No one heard, but it doesn’t matter.’

Robert laughs softly. ‘Come on home, boy.’

‘Uncle Robert?’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you.’

‘What for?’

‘Making me an embalmer.’

‘You’ve done that yourself, William.’

‘I won’t be back till late. I’m going to Swansea.’

‘Oh!’ Robert says, suddenly louder. ‘Good! We’ll be here. Waiting.’

▪ ▪ ▪

William drives west, the crumpled paper with an address in Robert’s handwriting on the dashboard. When he reaches Mumbles, he stops to ask in a corner newsagent for directions to Plunch Lane. He’s close. The five-minute drive ends with him parking his car opposite a chalet-style house halfway up a steep hill.

He turns off his lights and stares at the illuminated face of his mother’s home, lights shining through the curtains of both downstairs windows. He can’t quite believe that her life is contained within the walls of this neat little house, with its beige gravel path and privet hedge, that he has not once visited. He imagines sitting down with her and telling her what he’s seen, what he’s done at Aberfan. He imagines that old feeling of being the centre of her world, the focus of her intense love and attention.