IN THE HOURS BETWEEN • TC

8. Silence

At the beginning of July, Timothée starts disappearing.

He no longer leaves spilled milk on the kitchen counter, and the Cheerios are always in the same place as they were the night before. Timothée is never pottering around in the kitchen and on Tuesdays, on Thursdays, he is never there at all.

It's not like Una expects him to keep them all up to date with where he's going, but maybe an indication as to his whereabouts would be nice, for Fen's benefit. For Frank.

It turns out that Tuesday and Thursday mornings are actually quite relaxing without Timothée there - the shower is warmer for longer, the kitchen is spotless. There's no humming in the back garden as Timothée waters the plants with a rusty old watering can that no one has touched in at least five years. (Sean just uses the hose when he waters the plants, but Timothée seems to find it therapeutic. Seems to like milling around, filling the can up and lugging it around with him.)

Around midday, he always comes back from wherever he goes, mumbling English under his breath. A week ago he came home humming Itsy Bitsy Spider.

And what Una notices the most is that he tries to talk. Tries to talk more, not just when he needs something. He'll initiate conversation at breakfast when there is nothing to be discussed. Will say things like why do we put milk with cereal instead of water or who do you think invented cutlery and Una will either ignore him completely or make a face like she's thinking about it, wait a few seconds, and then say I don't know.

She leaves it to Frank to deal with the heavy stuff, the questions that neither of them want to answer. (Because Timothée may be classed as lovely and whatever, but he really does struggle to shut up once he's started talking.)

On Thursdays, they go for walks with Milo. On Fridays, usually, Una gets her letters, and on Saturdays she posts her replies. Sometimes, Timothée will tag along.

"Do you write this every week?" he asks, looking at the letter as Una posts it.

"These," she says. "Or those."

"These," Timothée corrects. "Those."

She nods. "Nearly every week, if I have the time."

"Who do you write to?" he asks, and she looks at him for a moment. Runs her tongue over a canine, her mouth closed. She swallows.

"Oh, just..." she turns around, trailing off, and they walk back the way they came.

(She thinks about it, but says nothing.)

--

The thing is, he's very good at talking, but not necessarily at expressing things. They go to the beach on Sunday and get slushies. Timothée sits there with his cup until the ice melts, his lips toying with the straw but never actually sucking. The slushie sweats between his knees, leaving damp patches on the denim when Una looks. His drink is liquid by the time everyone else is finished, their straws making obnoxious slurping sounds.

She stares out at the sea, and when she looks to her side, there is already a pair of eyes trained on her. She sips a little more tainted water from the bottom of her cup, and raises her gaze to meet Timothée's own. His fringe flutters a little.

"Are you drinking that?" Frank asks, and Timothée looks away, breaking something between them. He shakes his head and hands it over, while Una lifts her cup to her head, her cheek. Tries to cool herself down.

--

In mid July, Frank goes to a friend's house for the day.

And just because Una doesn't have many friends, it's not like he's not allowed to have any. It's just that it's a Thursday, so Una is waiting outside Mrs Bedford's gate. Waiting for the old woman to answer Timothée's knock and let Milo out for his wobbling scramble over the common.