‘Money problems were a way of life for my son,’ she replied. ‘But there was no malice in him. He was one of those people who make the world a better place. Then he lost his way and he never found his way back. And it didn’t do any good – however much we loved him, however much it hurt us, however much we wanted him to be well. However much he wanted it for himself. None of it mattered. But under it all he was a good boy. A happy boy. There wasn’t always that sadness in him. There wasn’t always that darkness.’

She suddenly seemed very tired. She nodded towards the piano and the silver-framed photographs. ‘Look for yourself. Look at my son. Go on.’ It was more than an invitation. ‘Look,’ she said.

I went across to the piano where there were dozens of photographs. But they were all of a baby and a boy. It was as if Adam Jones had never made it beyond his middle teens. There were shots of a bonny baby, in his cot and in the arms of Mrs Jones, when she was young and pretty and healthy, in love with life and her newborn son, laughing with delight at the miracle of this baby; and then Adam as a chubby-legged toddler, holding hands with his father, both of them smiling on some sunny English beach; and Adam a bit older, six or seven, long-haired and grinning to reveal the gaps in his front teeth, holding a child’s violin. The boy grew before my eyes. But he did not grow to manhood. Not in these photographs.

I looked across at Mrs Jones. Her eyes were closed. The dog had seized the opportunity to climb on to the sofa and snuggle up to her. Her head was dropping forward.

‘I get so very tired,’ she said, looking up at me sharply. ‘Did your grandmother experience that tiredness?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

I picked up a photograph of Adam at the age of about ten, on stage in an evening suit standing before an audience of adults and children who were on their feet and clapping. He held a child-sized oboe in his hands.

I put it back down.

‘Chemotherapy makes you exhausted,’ I said.

I looked at her, and she was sleeping. I turned back to the piano, my eyes ranging over the photographs, waiting for them to tell me something. No brothers, no sisters. Adam as a little boy in his Superman pyjamas. A posed picture of a youth orchestra. And another, a year or two later. And sitting in front of his mother on a carousel, both of them grinning and waving as their horse rode past the camera.

Goodbye, Daddy, goodbye.