He was in front of Thelma’s final painting. My footsteps made him turn, a shivery movement that he seemed to hope would go unnoticed. He took a moment to raise a smile, by which time I’d seen how thin and pale he was, his eyes underlined by dark skin that looked bruised. I could easily have thought his smile involved some bravery, however resolutely hidden. “Good God,” I said, “what’s happened to you, son?”

My outburst made a gallery assistant give us rather more than a glance while Roy caught a desiccated cough in his fist. “That’s all, dad.”

For a moment I thought he was dismissing my concern and me as well. “What is?” I protested.

“Just a summer cold, mum says.”

“That can’t be all. How much weight have you lost?”

“No more than I can afford, mum says. It’s all the walking we’ve been doing, Bell and me.” Defensively if not resentfully Roy added “Bell says I look good.”

I was dismayed to think he was depleted to the same extent that she’d grown plumper. “Does it matter what I say?”

“Course.”

I found the word too terse for conviction. “Have you been to the doctor at least?”

“For just a cold? You never would. I’m not going to waste their time.”

I had to restrain my anxiety so as not to alienate him. “So why did you want to meet up?”

Even this appeared to provoke him. “Have I got to have a reason?”

“Not at all. If we’re friends again I’m glad.”

A cough was his immediate answer, followed by “I figured we could get together while I wasn’t with Bell.”

I managed not to betray how I wished this were wholly so. “We could when you are if you like.”

“Maybe soon. I’ll talk to her.” Before saying any of this he turned back to the canvas. “I’m through here if you are,” he said. “Just wanted another look.”

I gave Thelma’s final work a last glance, and then I peered closer. While the tree displaying traits of every season was as diversified as I remembered, the distant figure was entirely faceless. On my previous visit I’d made out the hint of a face. It looked as if the features had been erased, leaving an oval smudge of paint like the mark of a thumb without a thumbprint. “Excuse me,” I called to the attendant, “what’s happened here?”

She approached at speed, only to slow down. “That’s her last piece,” she said. “She left it unfinished.”

“Not that unfinished. This figure here, she’d begun the face.”

“No, she wouldn’t have. That’s a recurring motif in her late work, the faceless figure in the distance. You can’t even tell the gender.”

“I can.” Rather than say far too much I said “I’m her nephew.”