Page 179 of When We Were Young

I pull up outside Mary’s house. It hasn’t changed since I first arrived there with Tumi as an inquisitive teenager, and I’ve been here many times since then.

I remember discovering Will’s last song in that house, and a few weeks later, stumbling across the leaflet about otosclerosis. Reading it suddenly made sense of the lyrics that had been puzzling me – I was certain Will must have had the disease. That day, Mum wanted me home for Grandad’s birthday. I knew stopping to ask Mary about my theory would make me late, but I couldn’t let it go.

I found her in the kitchen. ‘Did Will have any problems with his hearing?’ I asked.

‘No. What makes you think that?’

‘I found this leaflet.’

‘Let me see that.’ Mary held it at arm’s length and recognised it immediately. ‘Ah, no. That’s mine.’

‘It’syours?’

‘Yes. I’ve had trouble with my ears since I was pregnant with Aidan. I had surgery but after a few years it got bad again. The consultant said surgical techniques had improved. They gave it another go, but it didn’t work and surgery on my other ear was too risky, so they gave me a hearing aid. These in-ear ones are quite good if there’s not too much background noise, and you can hardly see them.’

‘So, Will didn’t have any hearing problems?’

‘No, though you’d think he would, playing all that loud music.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘They say otosclerosis can be hereditary, but neither of my boys had it.’

‘That’s lucky,’ I said, trying to hide my disappointment. ‘Why did he have this leaflet, then?’

‘I gave it to Will because I wrote that telephone number on it.’ She points to the handwritten number along the top margin, the one I assumed was for the hospital department. ‘Will stayed with us for a few days when he got out of hospital. This man kept ringing: a songwriter the record company wanted him to work with. Will wouldn’t speak to him. He didn’t want to play someone else’s music. He wrote his own songs. I thought he’d thrown that leaflet away. But if he kept it, maybe he was considering ringing that songwriter fella, after all?’

‘But one of his songs talks about not being able to hear the things you love,’ I said. ‘About music fading.’

‘I don’t know, love, I never understood what he was singing about. I just loved his voice.’

‘Mary, can I ask you something else?’

‘Fire away.’

‘Reu and Matty spoke about Emily, Will’s girlfriend. Do you remember her?’

Mary’s face clouded, and she covered her face with her hands.

I squirmed in my seat. I shouldn’t have mentioned Mum.

‘Mary?’ I asked. ‘Are you okay?’

Mary let her hands drop. ‘That girl was nothing but trouble from the beginning. She had my boys at each other’s throats. She tore my family apart. Once Will got together with her, we didn’t see him anymore. And after… she wanted to come to the funeral. Can you believe the cheek of her? As if we would want her there when it was all her fault.

‘Then I heard she’d had a baby. She moved on so quickly she mustn’t have cared for Will at all. She got on with her life and I’ll never be able to get on with mine.’

I get out of the car and walk up the path to the Bailey house with its neat front garden, a blooming wisteria growing up the side of the bricked-up garage. I’ve kept in touch with Mary, popping over every few months to chat, but since I started writing the book, it’s been more of a weekly thing. When she answers the door, she’s not fazed that I’ve turned up unannounced again. I follow her to the kitchen, where she makes tea as though she has been expecting me.

‘Have you more questions for me?’ she asks, stirring milk into the mugs.

‘No, not today. I wanted to ask you a favour.’

‘Oh?’ She puts my tea in front of me and sits opposite me.

We’re sitting in the same seats as we did all those years ago, the last time I asked about Mum. Mary looks older now, her hair almost completely white.

‘Do you remember before, when we spoke about Will’s girlfriend, Emily?’