It was one of her favourite photos. Toby and Tara. Taransay and Tobermory. And in their arms, their little sister. Molly.

The right thing to give to the project.

‘Ah ha!’ said a voice, over the sound of drilling in the main hall. ‘Just the person! Tara, come and give me your opinion on something.’

Keith strode down the corridor, his yellow hard hat incongruous above his cord jacket and jeans.

Dad jeans, thought Tara. Some things never changed.

But she gave him a hug anyway.

‘Can you settle an argument for me about where we should put the commemorative plaque?’ he said. ‘There’s a debate raging and a decision needs to be made. I’m supposed to be heading off in an hour or two. This was only supposed to be a site visit, but you know what it’s like …’

‘I know what you’re like. You want to micromanage every tiny thing. And I’m not getting involved in that,’ said Tara. ‘Ask Alice. It’s her job.’

Boundaries were her new thing. Eric said she needed to work on making a new one every day until it was second nature. Tara wasn’t sure she wanted to go that far, but saying a firm no was surprisingly thrilling.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ she said to change the subject, and handed him a gift bag.

‘What’s this?’ Keith pulled the tissue wrapping from the parcel, and Tara was pleased to see delight illuminate his face.

‘Where did you find this?’ He looked up. There was a hint of a tear in his eye. No, more than a hint; a definite tear. ‘This is my favourite photograph of you two. It used to be on the kitchen shelf, didn’t it? By the window?’

It was Toby and Tara’s Year 6 school photograph: they were dressed in identical green Longhampton Primary jumpers, with identical short haircuts, but while Toby was grinning wildly, Tara was gazing desperately at the camera. It was as if they’d agreed to pull opposite expressions for a dare.

‘I asked your mum for this a few times,’ he said. ‘She never replied.’

‘It was in the last storage box, I found it a few nights ago.’ She paused, still trying to be fair. ‘I think Mum wanted the house to be hers again once we left. But she kept everything.’

Tara and Toby had sat up until dawn going through the boxes until their childhood lay around them, like the fragments of their shipwrecked lives. Their baby teeth, and coils of black hair. Christmas decorations made from glitter and fingerprints. Tara’s netball medals. Branston’s puppy collar. Some still-wrapped gifts. Photos. Lots of photos. A route back into a past Tara thought had been lost for ever, and, more important to her, proof of a happiness that had definitely existed. Proof, too, that her mum hadn’t thrown everything away – or wanted to.