From a huge range of beer, I chose Guinness. After ordering two glasses, sat down at a far table in the corner. Without disturbing anyone, without touching anyone. Drank the first glass. Nice stuff. After second glass I went for the third and fourth. Difficult to remember what happened next. Random guys and songs like "Leaving Liverpool" with words I've never heard, darts, and fight at the end of a fun evening.

Quietly turning the key in the door lock, I tiptoed into the house. 2 am. Cool party, if not counting the abrasions on my hands, the terrible smell of alcohol and tobacco smoke through my clothes. It is unlikely that the former owner of the house allowed himself such behavior.

Turning on the floor lamp in the living room, I collapsed on a sofa. Where do they have a gramophone or what's the name of the thing that plays songs? When I was about to listen to the music, I stopped. What should I listen to? The current naphthalene is not interesting to me. Now I would give half my kingdom even for the simplest record of Rebecca Black.

Looking over the walls, I saw that there was not a single portrait of Mary. On the mantelpiece is a photograph of Henry with the children, taken in a goofy decorated studio which were in the early twentieth century. On the wall opposite the fireplace was a large photograph of Wilde in his marine uniform. Nearby is a portrait of an elderly imposing lady in a tightly buttoned old-fashioned blouse with a lace collar. The domineering look of a strong woman, accustomed to decide everything herself and be responsible for the children. It was Henry's mother, Elizabeth. It seems that the son inherited a pleasant appearance and complete self-confidence from her.

For some reason, I did not find a photo of his father. Did father mean nothing to Henry? Although, if he died before his birth, everything is logical. Why keep in plain view a portrait of a person you've never met? But these are only my guesses.

Where could photos of the late Mary be hidden? If I had buried my wife, I would have done the same, removing our joint photos and her alone, for not to stir up my soul and upset the children. Everything in the bedroom was rummaged by me especially carefully. There is nowhere to hide in the living room. Children's rooms - no. There is no office in the house. Dining room - no. There's only left ... right! Attic!

After drinking a glass of whiskey for courage, I lit a portable oil lamp after fiddling with it for half an hour. In old jeans covered with beer, a shirt sticking out from under my sweater, I looked not like a respected English sailor, but like an anti-social element from the 21st century on unemployment benefits.

Attic was almost empty.

I placed the lamp on the floor and rubbed my hands in anticipation. And I wasn't wrong. The chest contained Mary Katherine Jones' belongings. Henry didn't give them to anyone, didn't throw them away. For more than a year they lay out of sight. A jewelry box that Mary will never wear again. Letters from her husband that she'll never read again...

The photographs were at the very bottom of the chest, along with a certificate of death, baptism and birth of the deceased. Ordinary woman. Born in 1872 in Liverpool, baptized, gave birth to all her children here, and having lived in the world for exactly thirty-eight years, found her last refuge in Kirkdale Cemetery in December 1910. What was her life like? Did Mary see anything else besides the selfish husband, crowd of children, and the dark port city? Did they love each other? If not, she probably would not give birth to his children.

Marriage certificate. Henry married late, according to local standards - at 26 years old All that remained of them were meager documents and photographs in the dead darkness of the attic. Were people, now no people.

And here are the photos! They were neatly folded into a stack, wrapped in thick paper. The first was a wedding photo. Good old-fashioned beauty. Henry in all the splendor of his RNR uniform with saber and white gloves. Handsome. I would marry him myself if I were a woman. The bride was wearing a discreet elegant dress - fitted at the top and wide at the bottom. I didn't see the lace very well, but in general it doesn't matter.

Wilde's untimely deceased wife had no special unearthly beauty. Her face seemed vaguely familiar to me. As if we could meet somewhere. Taking a stack of photographs with me, I went down from the attic back to the living room. Having settled down in a chair near the floor lamp more comfortably, in normal light, I began to look at all the photos.

Mary... where could I see you? Where? It's not like I got hit hard on the head in the pub... it's...that woman who spoke to me in the graveyard. In one of her last photos, she was in the same dress. I would not recognize the young one, but the older one, no doubt.

According to the laws of the genre, I should have been scared, but there was no fear. But I never believed in fairy tales about communication with the dead, considering them to be just stories for teenagers.

Went upstairs to my bedroom. Dirty clothes flew to the floor, I dived under a heavy warm blanket.

I was taken to the realm of dreams. The moon came out from behind the clouds, illuminating Gray Road with a mysterious silvery light.

In the morning I received a call from White Star line office. New appointment after sick leave is…Titanic. I have only seven days in Liverpool. And have to make a decision.