An Empty Death by Laura Wilson Page A

you were such good friends—’

    Surreptitiously, Todd tested the weight of the iron in his hand. Why didn’t she just shut up? Why did it matter to her? She couldn’t even remember properly anyway. For God’s sake, he willed her, just take my word for it. Leave the subject alone. Save yourself.

    ‘It’s very easily done,’ he continued, as if she hadn’t spoken, ‘especially if one tries to remember all one’s friends’ names a few years afterwards . . .’ Shame it was the front room of the house, although the net curtains meant that they were unlikely to be seen by anybody across the way. He shifted the poker slightly again, trying to dry his sweating hand on his trousers.

    ‘I suppose so.’ Mrs Dacre looked at him doubtfully, then, picking up another picture - also not captioned, thank Christ - said in a more definite tone, ‘This one looks more like you. You’re right next to James.’

    Todd relaxed fractionally. ‘That’s a relief. I’d hate you to think,’ here he gave her one of his never-fails charming smiles, ‘that I was some sort of imposter.’

    ‘Oh, no!’ Mrs Dacre laughed - but she was blushing, too. ‘What a ridiculous idea!’

    Having got her on the back foot, Todd judged it safe to relinquish the poker, which he did with a little bob downwards while she refilled the tea cups. ‘Oops,’ he said, as the clang of metal on metal made her look up. ‘Clumsy of me. Tripped on the fender.’

    ‘That’s all right.’ She handed him a cup of tea. ‘Here you are.’

    He rejoined her, leaning towards her once more. ‘Heavens,’ he said, gazing at the photograph on her lap - it was too soon to reestablish trust by any sort of touching, even the supposedly accidental. ‘It does look rather as if the sun was in my eyes, doesn’t it?’

    ‘It does a bit. Didn’t you like being photographed?’ She sounded unguarded now, friendly, almost maternal.

    ‘Not much, no.’ He gave her a bashful, boyish look.

    ‘Well, I don’t know why. You’re very handsome when you smile.’

    ‘You’re very kind,’ he said, modestly.

    ‘Oh, not at all. Look, there’s Billy Powell,’ she said, pointing at another boy in the line. ‘Do you remember him? He used to come here for tea. Such a funny little boy - always pulling faces . . .’ As she rambled on, Todd’s eyes strayed to the pile of paper on the tray. He could see tantalising glimpses of crests and embossing. Those were the things he wanted: documents that validated a life.

    ‘You haven’t finished your cake,’ said Mrs Dacre. ‘I hope it isn’t too dry. Would you like some tea to go with it? I’m sure I can squeeze one more out of the pot.’

    ‘Thank you.’ He extended his cup as she removed the knitted cosy. ‘You’re very kind.’

    ‘It’s sweet of you to say that, but really, this is so nice for me.’ Mrs Dacre poured milk. ‘It’s kind of you to listen to me rambling on like this. I don’t often get the chance. Are your parents still living here?’

    He shook his head. Might as well start with the truth, he thought. ‘I’m afraid my father passed away some years ago,’ he said, ‘and my mother’s in Worcestershire. She moved when the flying bombs started - too much for her, and we have family there, so . . .’ That, he thought, was suitably vague.

    ‘I don’t blame her,’ said Mrs Dacre, fervently. ‘Horrible things. I’m sorry about your father.’

    ‘It was very sudden,’ he said. ‘A perforated ulcer. He hadn’t been well for a while, but we had no idea . . .’ The memories that impinged made it impossible to finish the sentence. In the last weeks of his life, his father had become more withdrawn and depressed, but Todd had simply chalked it up to the demoralising effect of failure, and thought no more about it. When his father had collapsed on the sitting room rug, crying out, his mother’s first reaction had been to tut over the upset ashtray and rush for the dustpan. He remembered