Page 72 of All the Things We Never Knew

He shook his head wearily. ‘I did not know that. How sad.’

He hadn’t known about Gray’s mother’s death, and I sensed that there was nothing more he did know – nothing he could tell me.

But I asked, ‘Joel – Chamberlain, was it? Are you still in touch with him?’

He looked surprised. ‘Of course. He’s the Joel Chamberlain.’

My blank look made him laugh.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m not…’

‘Not a musical person. Of course. He’s a world-renowned violinist. One of our most famous alumni. He often returns to the school to play and give talks, and Seren, his mother, is on our board of governors. I’m sure she’ll be happy for me to give you her number.’

He scrolled through his phone and found it, and I entered the eleven digits into my own phone.

‘There’s one other thing,’ I said. ‘A song – Gray mentioned that it would have been played at his mother’s funeral, and I’m sure I remember him singing it to our children when they were babies.’

He smiled. Instead of a conventional answer, he began to sing, his voice low and clear in the golden air. For the second time that day, I felt that prickling sensation on the back of my neck as I was transported back to the bathroom in the house on Damask Square, my breasts leaking milk into the warm water as I heard Gray singing to our baby.

‘Holl amrantau’r sêr ddywedant

Ar hyd y nos

“Dyma’r ffordd i fro gogoniant,”

Ar hyd y nos.’

‘What does it mean?’ I asked, my own voice sounding thin and high after his.

‘It’s a lullaby, and as you say, a funeral song. The original lyrics are somewhat untranslatable. But the title means “All Through the Night”.’

I thanked him for his time and watched him make his way painstakingly back down the hill in the direction of the Red Lion. Gray could have been there: could have been singing in the choir like Tomos Graham, joining his friends for a pint, alive and at home in the place where he grew up.

But he wasn’t. He’d chosen to leave it all behind, erasing his memories, his past, even the music that had been his comfort. Why? What happened in that neglectful home?

I swiped my phone to life and located Seren Chamberlain’s number. If I hurried, I could make the last train back to London – or, if she was able to see me, I could stay overnight. But before I dialled, something made me check my WhatsApp.

There was a new message from Laurel.

Hi Anna, I’m sorry to bother you. Lulu was meant to meet me tonight for a burger and a chat, but she hasn’t turned up. I can’t get hold of her. I thought you should know.

Shit. Feeling sweat springing out all over my body – but at the same time a creeping coldness – I sprinted down the hill to the bus stop, my fingers fumbling on the screen of my phone. Pressing it to my ear, I listened as first Lulu and then Barney’s numbers rang out. The last train back to London was at half past eight. I’d assumed I would make it easily and be home by one as I’d promised the children, but I was cutting it fine.

To my relief, the bus arrived just as I did. I boarded and flopped into a seat, checking my phone again and hammering out texts to Orla and Barney. Then I tapped the Google Maps app, hoping to reassure myself that I’d make it back in time.

My heart plummeted when I saw the little warning icon on my journey plan. The flooding on the line that had caused the earlier delay had had a knock-on effect, and the late train from Swansea back to Paddington was cancelled.

Don’t panic, Anna, I urged myself. You’re in Wales, not the Australian outback. You have options.

But, as it turned out, I didn’t. After unsuccessful attempts to order an Uber, I dialled the two minicab office numbers that were displayed next to the closed ticket office, only to be explained to as if I was hard of thinking that the Ospreys were playing Cardiff and no drivers were available. My own driving licence was at home.

I was stuck here overnight, and my daughter was missing.

FORTY-ONE

ORLA

20 September 2024