The hands of the clock ticked over to eleven pm and Maria poured herself another cup of tea, tugging the shawl that was wrapped around her shoulders more firmly into place. Malcolm would be home soon and she would wait for him. He had been gone for two days now and he had not phoned, which meant that he was terribly busy. She knew though that, short of the end of the world, she would hear from him before the end of this evening, whether that meant he would phone or actually come home. He never went longer than this without getting in touch. He was still such a good boy, her grown man of a son. Such a good boy.
She sipped her tea and hummed, an old song that she had not thought of in years. Rhys had been the singer in the family, the beautiful youth that she first saw singing in a choir from Pembrokeshire that was touring the south of Wales. He had grey eyes and black hair and a charming smile and she had been smitten before she even knew his name, unable to look away from his face the whole time the choir was performing.
She had sought him out afterwards, took him home for a cup of tea and a kiss and, when the choir had finished its tour, he had come back to Dunvant and asked her to marry him. Things were so much simpler in those days, love was so much easier. She sometimes thought that Malcolm would have been better suited to the elegance of that time gone by, that back then he might have found someone who would make him as happy as Rhys had made her. He was too shy for this hectic, complicated world that they lived in now. It broke her heart to think of him being alone.
And Rhys had made her happy. He worked hard to buy her the books that she loved so much, never drank his money away in the pub when they were a bit short, never smoked and never gambled. He sang in his choir and that was enough for him, that and being at home with her and their son. She had never spoken a word of Welsh until she married him and they had Malcolm, but Rhys insisted that the boy be raised speaking his native language as well as English, so Maria had learned too. Lately, when her thoughts had been wandering, she even found herself thinking in Welsh, remembering Rhys' gentle voice and how he made the already soft and lyrical language sound like music. She clung doggedly to her accent here in London, even though Malcolm had long ago lost his. It felt like she was holding onto some small part of Rhys.
And, of course, Rhys had given her Malcolm, his greatest gift of all. Her boy, her clever, clever boy, who went to work every day to save the world and never minded that the only person who knew about it was his mother. She worried for him, for the things that he saw and the things he had to do. He had a gentle soul, as gentle as his father's had been, and she worried that one day he would see one horror too many and she would never get him back. She had once met his boss, the often mentioned Harry Pearce, and she had warned him as such, out of Malcolm's earshot.
"He's special, my son, very special," she had said, staring boldly up into the man's face, "Make sure you don't break him, because I will never forgive you if you do."
The man had seemed surprised but then he had nodded slowly and held out his hand for her to shake.
"I will do my utmost, Mrs Wynn-Jones. I promise that I will."
As the clock struck half past eleven, the front door clicked open and she heard his familiar step in the hall. She didn't call out to him; the kitchen light was on and he would come to turn it off before he went up to bed. She heard him removing his coat, the soft slither of fabric, and heard his shoes clunk neatly into place. He was nothing if not precise.
When he arrived in the kitchen doorway, he was clearly surprised to see her up. It was well past her usual hour to turn in. He leaned tiredly against the door post and cocked his head.
"I thought you would be asleep," he said, "You didn't stay up for me, did you?"
"I just wanted a cup of tea," Maria shrugged, waving her hand at the tea pot and his mug set out on the tray, "Some in the pot for you, boy, if you want it. I thought you might come back."
He hesitated under her gaze and, tellingly, looked away. He only ever did that when he was trying to hide something. Eventually he nodded and moved to pick up the tray.
"Can we move to the lounge? My back would appreciate the settee."
He went ahead of her, leaving her to follow at her own pace, and he was removing his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves when she arrived in the lounge. Forsaking her usual spot in her favourite chair, she sat down carefully besides him on the sofa. Something told her he would be needing her.
In the brighter light of the lounge, he looked exhausted, the poor lamb. His hair, thinning though it was, stuck up at all angles from where he ran his hands through it when he was frustrated. His eyes, the mirror of Rhys', were rimmed with dark circles and his shoulders slumped as he poured tea into his Doctor Who mug. It was an ugly thing, the mug, but he did love it; his friend Colin had given it to him and bought a matching one for himself. Malcolm had so few friends that she felt she could tolerate ugly crockery for the sake of someone who made him so happy. His hands shook as he poured the tea and she wondered if it was from tiredness or from something else. He was fighting against revealing something, she could tell from the purposefully blank look on his face.
"You didn't come home yesterday."
"No," his voice caught, just a tiny little catch that she almost missed, "Sorry. We had – an incident. A bad one. Worse than usual."
"You didn't phone. I knew it was bad when you didn't phone," she said, stirring her tea thoughtfully and wondering whether to push him into talking, "Are you alright? Everyone safe?"
His eye twitched. He was hiding something and the look on his face told her that he knew she had already worked that out.
"Malcolm? What happened?"
He hesitated and she knew why. He really shouldn't tell her anything, he could simply shake his head and she would know that he couldn't tell her and she, most importantly, would not ask him again. She understood the nature of his work all too well.
"We – we lost someone," he stammered suddenly.
"Oh, I'm sorry boy," she shook her head and rested a hand on his arm, "Anyone I know?"
There were several people on his team now that Malcolm was quite taken with, besides Colin and Harry. There was Ruth, who Malcolm said was the cleverest person he had ever met, and Adam who was the awe-inspiring leader, and the youngsters Jo and Zaf, who Malcolm said were some of the most promising junior officers he had ever worked with. Maria ran through the list in her head and hoped it would be none of them, then she realised that Malcolm still hadn't said anything in response to her question.
The longer the silence stretched on, the worse she knew it would be. He turned to her and she saw his lip trembling, saw him literally fight against every fibre of his own being as he tried to say calmly, "It was Colin. We lost Colin."
He leaned forwards, elbows resting on his knees and buried his face in his hands. He was still for a moment and she did not know what to say, and then his shoulders started to shake and she heard an anguished sob rip itself from his throat and then he was crying, still hiding his face from hers. It had been so long since he had cried that she was struck dumb and then her body moved for her, putting her cup down and wrapping her arms around him, pulling him towards her with a strength she did not know that she still possessed.
"You cry, Malcolm," she murmured in his ear, "No one can see you here."
He buried his face in her shoulder and sobbed pitifully, his whole body shaking with the effort. Her hand came up unbidden to run gently through his thinning hair and she began to sing softly, that old song that Rhys had loved so much. He used to sing it to Malcolm to get him to sleep, when he was small and his asthma woke him in the middle of the night.
Colin. Her mind wandered away from the melodic lyrics and towards that lovely man, that lovely young man who had been her son's best friend and closest confidante. He was the only one Malcolm had ever brought home, the only one who could keep up with Malcolm's train of thought and the only one who could sit and talk to her like they were old friends too. Such a sweet boy and not cut out to be a hero, not like his job required him to be. She felt tears form in her own eyes but she blinked them back. This was not her grief. This was not her time.
Malcolm cried for what felt like an eternity but what the rational part of her mind told her was probably only ten minutes. Her shawl was soaked through at the shoulder but she didn't mind. Malcolm straightened up and handed her the cup of nearly cold tea that she had abandoned so quickly. He picked up his own, a slight flush colouring his face. He was embarrassed to have broken down so completely, she knew.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't you dare be sorry," she said, "Don't you dare."
"That song-"
"Do you remember it?"
"Of course."
They sat quietly for a moment or two and then she reached out and took Malcolm's hand. He turned slowly to her, his eyes searching her face for comfort that she didn't know how to give him. She had never been very good at this part of being a mother. All she could do was to let him grieve, in his own time, and in his own way, and hope that would be enough.
It would have to be enough.
She took his face between her hands and kissed his forehead.
"Tell me one thing, Malcolm. Tell me he died doing something important."
There it was, the slight curl of his lip that preceeded a lie, just like Rhys. He was going to lie to her.
"Yes. He died doing something important."
Ar Hyd Y Nos
Holl amrantau'r sêr ddywedant
Ar hyd y nos
'Dyma'r ffordd i fro gogoniant
Ar hyd y nos.
Golau arall yw tywyllwch
I arddangos gwir brydferthwch
Teulu'r nefoedd mewn tawelwch
Ar hyd y nos.All Through The Night
Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and dale in slumber steeping
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night.