The picture showed Katrina outside the house, hers and John’s (the Dougdales’ now, Malcolm thought), crouching down with Tommy and Nicky on either side of her, Nicky aged about three or four and Tommy still a toddler. The light looked warm and the boys were in jerseys but no coats. They looked serious in that way small children sometimes do. Nicky was frowning at the camera but Tommy was looking at his mother. His small arm was outstretched, reaching for his mother’s hair. Katrina was laughing, turning to catch his hand as the photo was taken.

“She was very pretty, wasn’t she?” Tommy said, and Malcolm nodded, feeling the old ache in his heart.

“Do you have any of my father?”

With some reluctance, Malcolm drew out the other picture, a faded photograph of Katrina and John, sitting side by side on the beach. There was a slightly strained quality to their smiles which suggested they had been posing for too long. Heather was there too, at the edge of the photograph, looking away; she’d never liked having her picture taken. Malcolm supposed he must have taken the photo, but he didn’t recall the occasion now.

Tommy took it from him and frowned at it in silence for a long time.

Malcolm wondered what was going through his mind, whether Tommy was struck by the resemblance between himself and his father, but all Tommy said when he finally spoke was, “He wasn’t as attractive as my mother, was he?”

“I think he could be charming, when he wanted to be,” Malcolm said, and then wondered why on earth he’d felt moved to defend his brother. But perhaps it wasn’t that. Perhaps it was more that he felt the need to explain Katrina to Tommy, how she might have ended up marrying him. He said, “He would go out of his way to be charming. It was important to him, I think, that people liked him.”

Abruptly, Tommy passed the photograph back to him. “Can I keep the other one?” he said. “Of my mother with me and Nicky?”

“Of course. It’s yours.” Malcolm stepped away from him. “Let me get you a new envelope to put it in, keep it safe.” He went quickly into the living room and rummaged through the desk drawers until he unearthed a fresh envelope. He was glad to have a moment alone, and glad as well to have something to occupy his hands, which he discovered now were shaking.

17

His mother’s face was clearer as he lay on his bed later that evening, but Tom wasn’t sure if he had stolen her face from the photograph in his hand (he had it out again, couldn’t seem to leave it alone) or if the picture had prompted his own memory.

If he could go back.