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24. SUMMER 1993

It wasn’t the middle of the night, or three in the morning. It was teatime on a bright, sunny day. Nancy and I had been sitting in our garden, reading the newspapers and drinking tea. We had moved our chairs to the corner of the terrace, making the most of that last bit of sun before our north-facing garden was in total shadow. I didn’t hear it at first, it was only when I went into the kitchen to refill our cups that I saw two figures through the glass of our front door. And then I heard them. I realised later that they had probably been knocking for a while, because what I heard from the kitchen was no longer a knock, but a thump, with a fist. Not aggressive, but urgent. The teapot was in my hand, ready to pour, and I put it down and glanced through the open kitchen door at Nancy, her hat pulled down, shielding her eyes from the sun, lost in concentration. What was she reading? I don’t know exactly, I remember it was the review section, so it would probably have been something about a play or a film, or a concert that she might have circled with her pencil and suggest we get tickets for. But we never did. We never went to the theatre again, or listened to music.

I left her reading and went to the front door. You just know, really, when something is so wrong. And I wanted to leave her as long as possible in that old world where the Sunday papers could be read and sympathy felt for other people’s troubles, not our own.

“Mr. Brigstocke?” he said. And I nodded, not moving from the doorstep, not wanting to let them in.

“Can we come in, sir?” She said this, her eyes determined to hold mine. I hesitated and then stood aside, opening the front door wider, allowing them in.

“Is your wife here, sir?” she said. I nodded.

“What’s happened? Why are you here?”

“I’m afraid it is bad news, sir. Please go and find your wife.”

And I obeyed. They followed me to the sitting room door and said they’d wait there. Then I made the walk through to the kitchen and out of the back door and stood in the shade looking at Nancy, one splash of sun remaining on the edge of her hat.

She looked up.

“What is it?” Her eyes were screwed up, squinting at me in the shadow.

“Stephen?”

“The police are here. In the sitting room.” She continued to stare at me, her mouth partially open, knowing, as I did, that we were about to become old before our time. Bowed and buckled under a weight too heavy to bear. She pushed herself up from the depth of the deck chair, the vitality, it seemed, already having left her. I held out my hand and we walked together into our sitting room and sat in two separate chairs. The police officers had taken the sofa.

“You have a son, Jonathan. Age nineteen? He was travelling in Spain.”

We both nodded. Not dead then, I thought. They used the present tense. Nancy must have thought the same: “We had a postcard from him yesterday. From Seville,” she said and actually smiled as if this was proof somehow that he was fine, confirmation that he was a good boy who loved his parents, who didn’t want them to worry about him.

“We’re so sorry — Jonathan died in an accident. Yesterday. We’re very sorry.” I nodded, Nancy didn’t move. We both sat in our separate chairs and then I stood up and went over to her. I took her hand. It was clammy, unresponsive.

“What sort of accident?” I was thinking road. Something on the road, that’s where accidents happen. A car hitting him. Him falling from a motorbike at speed. Being hit by a truck. Something quick and final with no hope of recovery.

“He drowned,” the policeman said and the policewoman got up and offered to make tea. I pointed to the kitchen.

“It was an accident. The Spanish police are clear about that. Tarifa. The sea is treacherous there. Unpredictable.” He looked at us. But what could we say? What could we do? We needed to be told what to do. He knew that.

“You will have to go to Spain to identify your son. The Spanish authorities won’t release the body until there’s formal identification. Unless there’s someone else who could do that for you….”

“So you’re not sure it’s Jonathan? It could be a mistake?” Nancy snatched at hope.

“Mrs. Brigstocke, I’m sorry, but there is no mistake. The Spanish police have been through your son’s things… his bag was on the beach… but there still has to be a formal identification.”

“Maybe someone stole his bag?” she pleaded.

“They found his passport. It’s definitely Jonathan.”

The female officer came back with the tea — too milky, too sweet.

“The body can’t be released until it’s been formally identified. And then you can bring him home,” she said as she put down the tray. “But if there’s anyone else who could do that, then…”

“No, there’s no one else,” I said.

“No other family?” I shook my head. She took this in then carried on.

“The consulate will help with all the arrangements. They’ll look after everything for you.”

The body. Our son. The body. I felt Nancy slip her hand out of mine and wrap it around her teacup.

“Here’s the number for the consulate, and I’ll give you mine too,” the policewoman said, writing in a small pad. “In case you have any more questions.” She held the piece of paper out to me, but it was Nancy who took it. She sat down with it, staring at the numbers. She didn’t look up when they walked to the door, or when she heard it close behind them.

There were questions of course, which I hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask at the time. How exactly had it happened? What sort of accident? Was there anyone else involved? It was Nancy who found out those details when she telephoned the consulate and it was Nancy who told me. That is when I first heard the name Ravenscroft. Nancy wanted to get in touch with her, but I persuaded her not to. I’d said it was up to her to contact us and she’d agreed with me at the time. The fact that Catherine Ravenscroft made no attempt to do so made me even more certain that it had been the right decision. It was only later, after Nancy had developed the film from Jonathan’s camera, that she must have changed her mind. But she didn’t tell me. She kept it to herself.

When the door closed behind them, I saw Nancy was shivering and I pulled the blanket from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders. She still hadn’t looked at me.

“Nancy, Nancy,” I whispered. Then I knelt down and pulled her towards me, but I had to pull her, she didn’t come willingly. It was shock, she couldn’t move. Of course I was shocked too but in a way I was luckier than she was. I had her to focus on. I had to help her, so I couldn’t think about how I felt. I stroked her hair as if she were a child. I said her name again, several times, quietly, as if coaxing her out of sleep. And then she woke up and looked at me, shrugged the blanket from her shoulders and stood up, roughly dislodging me.

“You must phone that number. Get us on a flight.” And she went upstairs and I heard a suitcase being dragged from under our bed.