They returned to the others, but sleep did not come. His head was still full of his mother, and trying to capture a memory of her that might bring comfort. He thought of the cold of his childhood home, and the smell of whisky that was even in his school clothes, and the greatcoat that was his sixteenth-birthday present. For the first time he allowed himself to feel the pain of being a child that is not wanted by mother or father. He ranged for many hours in the dark, under a sky lit with infinitesimal stars. Images passed through his mind of Joan wetting her finger to turn the page of a travel magazine, or rolling her eyes as his father’s hands trembled over a bottle, but nowhere could he find her kissing Harold’s head, or even telling him he would be all right.

Had she ever asked herself where he was? How he was doing?

He saw the reflection of her face in a compact mirror as she painted on her red lips. She did it with such care, he had felt she was trapping something behind the colour.

A wave of emotion swelled through him as he recalled catching her eye once. She had stopped what she was doing so that her mouth was left half Joan and half mother. With his heart beating so hard it made his voice flutter, he had summoned the courage to speak. “Please will you tell me? Am I ugly?”

She had burst out laughing. The dimple in her cheek was so deep he could imagine slipping his finger into it.

It wasn’t meant to be funny. It was from the heart. But in the absence of all physical affection, her laughter had been the next best thing. He wished he had not torn her only letter to shreds. Deer son. It would have been something. It would have been something too to hold David in his arms, and promise him things get better. He felt nothing but anguish for the things that couldn’t be undone.

Returning to his sleeping bag before dawn, Harold found a small bundle beneath the zip, containing a heel of bread, an apple and bottled water. He wiped his eyes and ate the food, but still he didn’t sleep.

♦