He risked a glance at Tommy. He was sitting quietly, both hands placed in front of him on the table, as though he were a child making a conscious effort to keep still. But his eyes slid around the room, coming back to rest on his hands only when he seemed to sense Malcolm was looking. Malcolm wondered if the place appeared different to him. He cast his mind back, but couldn’t recall whether it had changed since Tommy had left. Probably not. He and Heather had never really gone in for—what was it you called them?—home improvements. They’d always had plenty of other things to be getting on with. The room must look old fashioned to Tommy, dated and drab, with its ancient gas stove and the cheap laminate, which had chipped off the counter in places. Malcolm wasn’t used to seeing his own home through the eyes of an outsider.

“How do you take your tea?” he said.

“Just milk. Please.”

Malcolm brought the mugs over and sat across from Tommy. His nephew, his mind threw out.

He said, “I was so sorry to hear about Jill. It was a terrible loss.”

“I was a long way away,” Tommy said. There was a silence, and just when Malcolm thought Tommy wasn’t going to say anything else, he added, “I got back in time, though. Just in time. Saw her before she died.”

Malcolm nodded. “We were sad not to be able to make it down for the funeral,” he said. “Heather wasn’t well enough.”

“It’s fine.”

The funeral would have been their first opportunity to see Tommy in years. Heather had so badly wanted to go. They’d eventually got through to Henry on the house phone, who’d come back from Canada for the final stages of his mother’s illness. He said he’d ask Tommy to ring them back, but for whatever reason, Tommy never had, and their letters had gone unanswered.

“Poor, poor bairn,” Heather had said, almost in tears, when they first learned the finality of Jill’s diagnosis. “Hasn’t he lost enough people already? And poor Jill. She’s still so young.” Of course they didn’t know then that Heather herself would die at the same age.

Malcolm wondered if there was anything they could talk about besides death. But what was there to say? You couldn’t ask someone why they’d come, could you, when it was your own family? No, you could not, Heather’s voice told him firmly. Leave it to Tommy to explain when he’s ready.

“How’s Henry?” Malcolm said after a moment, relieved to have thought of a new topic.

Tommy shrugged. “He’s fine. We don’t speak much.” Then, apparently feeling he had to offer more, he added, “He’s married now. They live in Vancouver. Two kids.”

“That’s nice,” Malcolm said, trying to recall Henry’s face.