When she first opened her eyes, Kathleen O'Hare had no idea where she was, but after catching sight of Connor's and Mr Curle's faces it all came crashing back at her and she howled and curled up as a baby and sucked her thumb, while Connor sat beside her and stroked her shoulder tentatively: "ye ken whit it means, Con?" she whimpered, "they've gone fur ever, buried under the grund like wurms an moles, they'll never come hame . . . . ." and Connor could only nod – he had never shared his wife's dogged devotion to a belief that somehow their sons had not died, that they had lost their memories and were somewhere waiting for her; Connor was interested in nature and he knew there were varieties of birds and animals that were nidifugous, and able to leave the nest soon after hatching and make their life apart from their parents – he'd seen a film at Green's Picturedrome in Ballater Street, that showed tiny fish hatching out in a disused pipe, and swimming away as soon as they were free of their transparent eggs, but the O'Hare weans were bound by invisible cords of family and home and he could never imagine Tam and Boabie, 8 year olds, surviving for more than a day on their own; so the news that they had been here, had scratched a message on a brick then got buried under tons of dirt in a field, was to much to hear, to bear, to accept! now he was no wiseacre, no smart Alec or, as they would say at the Tram Depot: smart-arse – it wasn't that he was cowed in the presence Mr Curle, a lawyer, a historian and some kind of bigwig to do with ancient monuments, but neither was he a big-mouth himself, he treated all his passengers equally, whether they paid their fares with farthings or those big, white five-pound notes (he'd only ever had one of those twice in all his years on the job), he was courteous and pleasant to all, neither kicking a drunk, or beggar, nor doffing his cap to 'Gentry' although he did call a priest Father, but that was the habit of a lifetime, so he asked Mr Alexander, quietly, out of Kathleen's hearing, although it was unlikely that she could hear anything, so distressed was she, if there were any remains of his sons, and the older man said: "I'll take you to the site, Mr O'Hare, show you the stone – it might be best if just you an I for now, perhaps Mrs O'Hare will be up to it tomorrow," and Connor agreed, so Mrs Turnbull took over sitting with Kathleen and simply being a reassuring presence, and Kathleen took hold of her hand and held it tight to her own face; in the car, Connor felt obliged to apologise for Kathleen's hysteria: "my wife’s no Moaning Minnie," he began, but was cut off: "no need to try to explain her grief, Son, to learn of the death of one child, let alone two, must be almost impossible to take in, when my brother James died a few years ago I was shocked, despite our advanced ages, he had always been here, by my side, for my whole life, even when we worked apart, I could write or telephone him, for advice, or just to reminisce, and came the day when I realised I would never see him again – I wandered around in a daze; I was seen up Arthur's Seat, in Waverley Station, down at Leith Docks and even on Cramond Island, but I have no memory at all of that or the next few days, no conversations, meals, anything, just a blank; our minds respond to our feelings of grief and other supreme emotions, in a survival mode, they shut down everything that is unimportant and carry us almost as automatons until we are able to function again; so don't say anything, Lad, she is a Mother and she will survive, for you and the other children."