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Chapters (16)
  1. Cover
  2. Author biography
  3. Title page
  4. Copyright page
  5. Dedication page
  6. Abstract
  7. Epigraph
  8. The Letter in the Bottle
  9. Original Transcript: The Letter
  10. The Search Concludes
  11. Three Years Later
  12. Conclusion
  13. The Mother’s Story
  14. Postscript
  15. Acknowledgements
  16. Sources

How amazing that I had found her. How amazing that she had agreed to meet, that she had managed to overcome her outrage at what I had done, what I had written. That we had been able to chuckle together and share our irritation at the erroneous analyses and conclusions in the book. How shocking and bizarre must it have been to have one’s private tragedy exposed in such a way, and what generosity of spirit had she shown in meeting with me. How beautiful that we could sit in the sun and break bread together, and chat and laugh, and find that we had much in common, although much of it was perforce linked to the death of her son. That perhaps out of that death would come something lasting. ‘I want this to be a good story – “une belle histoire”,’ was the first message that she had sent to me via Olivier.

Out of this tragic and convoluted tale of love, mourning, obsession and stubbornness, had come something beautiful; a memory of a young boy, innocent and gentle. She showed me the last photo, of a boy in a red T-shirt with a wide smile and bright eyes, dark hair lightened by the August sun at the end of the summer holidays. A boy who had had a happy, fulfilled and much-loved childhood, and who had tragically been killed on the last days of his holiday, the last days of his childhood. And a mother who had been almost destroyed by the disaster, but who had rebuilt herself through enormous effort and suffering, though it had taken her more than two decades to do so, and had come through as a person of generosity, humour and beauty of soul.

I can hardly bear to tell you, and I suppose that many of you will not believe me, but on the ferry back to England, after that very first meeting, I saw a pod of dolphins leaping out of a mirror-calm sea. I’ve crossed the channel many times, and I’ve never seen anything but seagulls and debris. I couldn’t believe my eyes, but the whole ferry-load of passengers saw it too and gasped in amazement, and it was a beautiful thing. Of course I don’t believe in such things, but it really did seem like a good sign.

This book is dedicated to Maurice.

The Mother’s Story

The Mother’s Story