Page 68 of All the Things We Never Knew

Like safeguarding a child who not only hadn’t been one for thirty years but had died three months ago was even a thing, I thought with a flash of anger.

‘But he’s dead. And he was my husband.’

‘I’m very sorry for your loss. But we won’t be able to help.’

She paused for a second, leaving space for me to thank her. When I didn’t do that, she hung up.

Frustrated, I turned back to the photographs. Once again, I turned to the one from 1991, in which the boy I was sure was Gray was standing in front of his taller, dark-haired friend, whose hand on Gray’s shoulder looked almost protective. At least he had had one person looking out for him, amid all the skipped lessons and disappointing grades.

But who were you? I asked the photograph, only realising afterwards that I could have been addressing the dark-haired boy or the one in front of him – the one who became my husband.

THIRTY-NINE

LAUREL

‘I’m not going to lie, it’s a vocation as much as a career,’ I said. ‘If you want an easy life, or to earn loads of money, then it’s probably not for you.’

Lulu nodded, looking intently at me across the hospital coffee-shop table. I could have arranged to meet her somewhere nicer, but I’d figured that if she was serious about becoming a nurse, crap coffee was one of the first things she’d need to get used to. It was a week since I’d last seen her; I’d waited a couple of days after suggesting to Anna that I contact her.

‘Is it…’ she began, running a finger around the rim of her coffee cup to scrape up the last of the rather scummy froth, ‘I mean, how do you cope, when people die and stuff?’

Her brown eyes were full of sadness. Gray’s eyes. Gray’s death. Gray’s daughter.

‘There isn’t just one answer to that,’ I began carefully. ‘Different people cope in different ways. As your career progresses, you get – not used to it, but I suppose it balances out better against all the patients you’ve been able to help. It can be traumatic – of course it can. But there’s support for all of us when things start to feel like a lot. And no matter how much you care about your patients, it’s not the same as when someone you know personally passes away. It’s just not.’

She nodded slowly. I hoped I’d got my answer as right as I could – but her next question took me by surprise.

‘Laurel? How did you know my dad?’

Shit. I wished I’d thought to agree some sort of cover story with Anna, but it would have felt too intrusive to ask her what she was happy for me to say, even though our last meeting had been less acrimonious than previous ones.

I didn’t want to lie to Lulu, but the truth was obviously impossible to tell, so I settled for half of it.

‘We were both into cycling. Your dad helped me out after I had a fall one time, and we got to be friends after that.’

Hopefully, she’d assume that we were members of the same cycling club or something – put two and two together to make five, rather than the correct four. But she didn’t seem to be thinking about me; my words had sparked a memory.

‘Dad was obsessed with cycling.’ She grinned. ‘Barney and I used to take the piss out of him about being a middle-aged man in Lycra. He wanted to buy a new bike – an even fancier one – but Mum said she was introducing a “one in, one out” policy, and it turned out he’d got kind of fond of the old one.’

I laughed. It was impossible to imagine the Gray I’d known becoming sentimentally attached to a bicycle. His children must have seen a different version of him – a softer one. The one that was their dad.

‘You must miss him terribly,’ I said.

Her face dropped and she nodded. ‘I do. We all do. Even Augustus. Dad used to play this game where he threw treats and Gus chased them, but he won’t do it for any of us.’

‘He was a special man. He sounds like an amazing dad. I’m so sad for you all.’

I longed to ask her more about Gray, gather more fragments of treasure to add to the memories I had of him, even though Lulu’s memories could never be my own. Instead, though, I turned the conversation back to nursing, offering to send her a list of the universities that offered the most highly regarded BSc degree courses.

But I soon realised she was only half-listening to me. Her eyes had flickered down to her phone, and now she was picking it up, swiping it to life, her face flushing as she read a message.

‘Laurel, I – I’m really sorry, but I’m going to have to go.’ I could see her struggling, torn between politeness and the urge to be somewhere else – like, now – which definitely hadn’t been there a moment before.

‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘I reckon we covered a fair bit of ground, didn’t we? You’re welcome to text me any time if you want to know more.’

‘Thanks.’ Lulu was already standing up, shoving her phone into her pocket after glancing surreptitiously at her reflection in its blank screen.

‘Or,’ I added, remembering my promise to Anna, ‘if you just want to chat. I know how hard it must have been, losing your dad.’