He allowed the cricket match to swallow up moments, minutes, rolled-out lengths of silence. His mother’s face conveyed that the silence of her marriage, in the dead of night, was not limited to Owen’s death.

‘What your father wouldn’t talk about at the funeral,’ Norma said, ‘was how Owen adored you. Four years was an unusual gap between children but Owen always wanted you with him, tagging along, sharing in what he was doing. I think Ronald cherished the exclusivity of their father-son relationship, but Owen insisted that you be included. Owen would do anything for you, Gordon. Anything. And I suppose in the end, he did.’

He didn’t take me surfing that day, Gordon thought.

‘I remember him always treating me like I was a pest.’

‘Not at all! But see, dear, you were very little, and it was a horrible time. I wouldn’t place too much trust in your memory if I were you.’

‘I don’t remember Dad speaking at the funeral.’

‘Well, there you are. You shouldn’t think about it too much, you’ll only start inventing things.’

Gordon’s heart thumped against his throat. ‘Is that why you and Dad never talk about it? You’re afraid you’ll start inventing things?’

Norma sniffed gently. She did not break down or begin keening, as she might usually have done. This was a new species of her emotionality. She seemed calm, relieved, almost happy to be having this conversation. He had expected more resistance, certainly more tears. Norma appeared to be undergoing some kind of blissful transcendence. Her eyes were fixed on the leaves of the Moreton Bay figs, hard and shiny as patent leather.

‘I used to try to get him to talk about it, but he would get very worked up. It’s years since I tried. Honestly, darling, I believe it would do him in.’

‘Do him in?’

‘Finish him off.’ She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve considered it from time to time! But I really think it would.’

At her turn of humour, she patted Gordon’s hand, briefly letting hers linger.

‘I’m not blind, darling. I know what it’s done to you. But you might want to think of our course of action in that light. We put Owen behind us. We thought the world of him, but he was gone. To keep talking about Owen would only make things worse for you, I thought, and I’m fairly sure this is what your father thought. To make too much of what we had lost would be putting too much expectation on you. We thought that by helping you—and ourselves—to forget him, we were doing you a kindness. I’m aware that you might not see it that way.’