That was the second time in my short life I realised just what I was capable of.
I'm in my dad's shoes now, viewing events from where he stood. Any eyes that were not on the beautiful mahogany coffin were on him, watching his every move, subconsciously judging how he coped or, maybe, how he didn't. The eyes and the looks would have been full of sympathy; surely that just made it all the more unbearable? My eyes scan the marble tombstone. It is in miraculously good condition. Only, it isn't miraculous. A miracle is void of explanation. There is a perfectly good explanation. My dad has a little bottle of polish and a cloth and he cleans the marble every time he comes here. It is a habit, a routine. But a good one. I read the words. I always read them again and again, like I can't quite believe them, like I expect them to disappear the next time I visit. And every time I have come back to Bridgend - even when I haven't had the courage to go and visit my dad - I have always come here. My dad knows that, for he seemingly knows everything. Of course, my mum was the beloved and devoted wife of my dad. But she was also the proud mother of her two loving sons, Jeffrey and Luke.
Luke.
My eyes scan to the adjacent tombstone, with the identical polished marble, and it is like somebody has tugged hard at my tongue, pulled it from my throat. This tombstone has been here even longer than my mother's.
I didn't want to laugh at my father's words to be cruel. It was just because of the ridiculous - outrageous - irony of the comments. I remember events from that day as though they were yesterday. The images in my mind are so vivid and colourful. Even though I was hiding behind the wall like a coward, part of me felt like it had escaped the rest of my body and was there next to my dad, holding his hand. He is such a slight and diminutive figure, and his outsized grey suit swamped his body, and yet he held himself with such dignity and respect on that day, he looked ten feet tall. I didn't need my dad to tell me that he spotted me. He caught my eye and held the look for just a moment, and then, subtly so that none of the congregation noticed, his face broke into a smile.
My dad was proud of me? It was ridiculous.
I bend down and kiss the smooth, rounded corners of both of the marble tombstones. I tell Luke that I miss him. I tell Mum that I am sorry. I'm sure I hear her tell me, clear as day, that she knows.
******
Sunday morning fades away and Sunday afternoon raises its lazy head. The population of South Wales has eaten lunch and is now most likely relaxing in front of the box.
It has been a surreal twenty-four hours. I slept last night in my old house, in my old room. I had almost literally turned back the hand of time. This morning I drank tea in the kitchen with Dad, just like he used to do with Mum. I gave him a warm hug and promised to keep in regular contact. I told him that I was off to see Mum, and he said she'd be so pleased to see me again.
I should really have caught the late morning train from Bridgend after visiting Mum at the cemetery. I wanted to. I just knew I couldn't leave without doing one last thing. Instead, I'll now have to catch an early evening train from Cardiff Central.
The strong fragrant air freshener in the taxi stings my cheeks. The roads are quiet as we head out of Bridgend on the A48. We turn off. Now the narrow and winding roads are occupied only by villagers walking their dogs who, in turn, stop and wave (the villagers, not the dogs). We are in the shadow of the glorious, overhanging trees, and so the light is limited. Many of the brick houses have thatched roofs. I cannot help but think of Hansel and Gretel, then the house made of straw in The Little Pigs. I do miss reading Emma her bedtime story.
I pull out my blue phone and type a message.
Going much better than I feared, Jenny.
I keep the phone in my hands, wait for the inevitable vibration.
I'm so glad. You're so brave.
The cab slows down and stops outside the house number he dialled into his satellite navigation. I ask the driver if he can await; I assure him that I won't be long. He looks at me uncertainly, and so I pay him for the journey here and ensure he catches the wad of notes in my wallet. Money is no object. It never is. He waits.
The door is again opened by an elderly lady. This one, though, is quite different from Simon's mum. She is even older, for starters - she must be nearly eighty. This lady actually smiles when she opens the door. She is dressed smartly, in an auburn blouse and a black skirt. I look down on her, because there is no option; she is absolutely tiny.
"I was wondering whether DCI Baldwin is in?"
Again, I feel like a child asking if my friend can come out to play. The woman smiles. "He is Mr Baldwin these days, dear. And could I please ask who you are? Mr Baldwin has upset quite a few people over the years, and so I need to be sure you mean no
