Page 69 of All the Things We Never Knew

‘Thanks,’ she said again, the smile that was so like Gray’s lighting up her face. ‘I really appreciate it. I’ll do that.’

As she hurried away, I found myself hoping that she would. Although I barely knew her, she was Gray’s child – a part of him that was still alive and present, more tangible and real by far than the idea of that donated kidney, which somewhere – I hoped – was sustaining the life of a man named Joel who I was increasingly losing hope of ever finding.

I hadn’t thought of Orla for several days; she had been kind to me, provided a listening ear when I needed one, but realistically what did she have to offer me other than a few scattered memories from two decades of living near Gray and his family?

I got up from the table, gathered Lulu’s mug and mine on to a tray and took it to the counter. It was almost seven – time to head home.

I was emerging from the stairwell on to the ground floor when I almost collided with Harry. Not unusually for him, he was running late for his shift, had given up on waiting for the lift and was about to make a dash up four floors.

‘Evening,’ I said. ‘You’ve got ninety seconds. You’ll make it if you don’t have a coronary on the way up.’

‘Ha very ha. I certainly don’t have time to stand around chit-chatting with you,’ he joked. ‘I was going to leave this in the office on the ward for you, but since you’re here you may as well take it.’

He handed over a plain brown A4 envelope, my name and the address of the hospital written on it in elegant, spidery handwriting. There was no ward number, so it must have sat at the front desk until one of the reception staff saw Harry and asked him to take it up for me. It wasn’t unusual for us to receive post, mostly cards and gifts from grateful patients.

But this felt different. I knew it was different.

‘Cheers,’ I called to Harry’s departing back. ‘Have a good night.’

I waited until I was home before opening the envelope – waited until I’d made a cup of tea and microwaved a jacket potato for my dinner.

I sat down on the sofa with my tea, stuck a random episode of A Place in the Sun on the telly, took the envelope out of my bag and slit the flap open with the back of my teaspoon. There was a card inside, too small for the length of the envelope, and two sheets of printed paper that looked like they had been cut from a magazine, folded into three.

I read the card first.

Dear Laurel,

I’m sorry it has taken a while for me to send this to you. I can only blame my memory, which took its time revealing what I’d hoped to be able to share with you – and my clumsy fingers, which made me leave off a digit when I took your phone number. But here it is. I will not tell you not to get your hopes up, because I think it is likely this is what you were looking for. I do hope, though, that this knowledge will bring you comfort.

With love,

Orla Clifford

I set the card aside and unfolded the pages, noticing that my hands were trembling. The first thing I saw was a full-page advertisement for an insurance company, evidently one that specialised in high-end cars. When I turned the two pages over, there was another ad, this time for package holidays for the over-fifties.

I might not be there yet, but I will be soon enough, I thought gloomily.

Then I opened out the pages so their insides were facing each other and saw why Orla had sent them to me.

It was an article from a specialist music magazine: an interview with a violinist. The left-hand page was a photograph of him with his instrument, the amphitheatre of a concert hall in the background. He was holding the violin so that its neck was alongside his face, his hands wrapped almost tenderly around it, its body resting on his thighs. The man was wearing an open-necked white shirt and faded blue jeans.

He was strikingly good looking with dark hair, slightly threaded with grey, and blue eyes. His features were strong without being sharp. His half-smile revealed a dimple in his left cheek.

Printed over the photograph were the words:

Twenty Questions for Joel Chamberlain

The interview itself was on the other page. My hands were so unsteady that I could hear the fluttering of the paper as I held it up to read. The first few questions were concerned with music, and I skimmed over them, the answers meaning far less to me than I guessed they would to regular readers of The Strad, which was the title printed at the bottom of the article alongside the page number.

They revealed that the piece of music Joel most enjoyed playing was ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ by Heinrich Wilhelm Ernst, a tune and a composer that meant nothing to me. The place where he most enjoyed performing was St David’s Hall (‘An iconic venue in my home city of Cardiff’), closely followed by his back garden (‘My neighbours probably hate me’ – a glimmer of humanity that made me smile).

‘Yes, but is it you?’ I asked aloud, my eyes returning briefly to the photograph before I read on.

The questions after that got more personal and more interesting. Joel had had scrambled eggs on wholemeal toast for breakfast that day, followed by a Pink Lady apple and a cup of builder’s tea (My man! I thought). When he wasn’t working, he enjoyed long bike rides along something called the Taff Trail, which sounded appealing. His favourite indulgence was a glass of red wine in the bath (Okay, Joel, you do you).

Clearly, the editor saved the best questions for last.

Have you ever been in love?