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It’s his daughter, Ariel, who enjoys gothic novels.”
    “Oh, right! I remember you kindly let me post a parcel of them to her.”
    “Tom isn’t a first cousin,” Ben explained. “Our mothers are second cousins; I think that’s how it goes. They probably wouldn’t have stayed in touch but for the fact that they are both Roman Catholics and at one time attended the same church. I’d never met Tom until the year I began working at my Uncle Sol’s restaurant in Tottenham Court Road.”
    “I’ve never heard about him!” Despite not letting on until today about Melody, Mrs. Malloy naturally expects to know more about our relatives than we do.
    “He died before I met Ellie. The nicest, kindest bloke, who always hoped I’d follow in his footsteps. Mum asked me to put in a word with him about Tom, who was out of work, and Uncle Sol hired him on at the cash register. He was there for about a year until he got a job with more money as a mechanic. He was great with his hands and could spot why things didn’t work”—Ben massaged his jaw to conceal ayawn—“but I didn’t see much of him even when we were working together. I had my own life and he had a girlfriend he was pretty crazy about.”
    “No bothering to keep in touch?” Mrs. Malloy has a strong sense of family, when it isn’t hers.
    “How was I supposed to know he’d one day win the lottery? They didn’t have them in those days. If someone had tipped me the wink, I’d have made him my best friend.”
    “Has your mother managed to get hold of their new address?” I asked him, ignoring the witticism.
    “Afraid not. Of course she assumes it’s Betty, not Tom, who’s afraid that if his relatives know where to find them they’ll all show up with their hands out, hoping for a share of the lolly.”
    “From the stories past winners tell, that does happen with disastrous results,” I said. “The millions disappear and bankruptcy looms.”
    “Would Betty be the girlfriend from when you was working with Tom, Mr. H?” Mrs. Malloy pulled a passing Tobias onto her lap and proceeded to arrange him into a furry blanket. It was getting a little nippy. I found myself thinking longingly of bed for a variety of reasons, one of which sprang from the fact that Ben smiled at me tenderly while answering Mrs. M.
    “No, that wasn’t Betty. Perhaps it was a pity the other relationship didn’t pan out. From the couple of times I met her, she seemed exactly what he needed. A real go-getter and as pretty as they come. Tom called her his wild Irish rose.”
    “What went wrong?” I asked.
    “She wasn’t a Catholic, which was a must for his parents. They put up a stink. Over their dead bodies would their son marry out of the faith. They had someone else lined up for him in no time, a girl he’d known from their first days inkindergarten. They’d gone on retreats together and even dated a few times as teenagers.”
    “Betty?” Mrs. Malloy and I said together, in the hopeful voices of children expecting to have stars drawn beside our names on the chalkboard.
    “No, Angela. She and Tom married but only had a few years together.” Ben waited for a rumble of thunder to subside before continuing. “There was a car accident and she was killed. She wasn’t even thirty, and to make matters as bad as they could be, Tom was driving.”
    “How awful!” I pressed a hand to my throat.
    “Bad weather conditions. Tom was lucky to get out of the crash with only minor injuries.”
    “The poor man! He must have been devastated.”
    “I’m sure he was. I wrote to him, of course, but I didn’t go to the funeral because he wanted the immediate family only.”
    “Grief takes people in different ways,” Mrs. Malloy proffered sagely.
    “Quite shortly afterward, he met and married Betty. The family thought it indecently quick. Maybe that’s another reason she’s glad to be shut of them.” Ben attempted to mask another yawn, a sign for me to get to my feet and begin