‘I’ll just have a quick look through this lot, shall I?’ he’d asked, and unceremoniously he emptied it out on the neat counterpane.

Hazel had only nodded. There were a couple of T-shirts, none too clean, a pair of jeans, a paperback book. There was a pair of plimsolls, stiff now and misshapen, like dried-out banana skins. There was a little dented handful of letters and cards that had been pressed together at the bottom of the bag. The medal was pressed against the papers, in a little envelope made of what looked like tracing paper. Owen had taken it out and examined it.

‘Reckon this belongs with your old family material, the little painting and the documents and what-not,’ he said, handing it to her.

‘Mum always kept it in with Stephen’s stuff. Well, as you can see. She felt it ought to stay in with his things.’

‘I’m going to get one of the document boxes and put all the papers in there. No need to throw any of them away. The duffel bag and these clothes, though, they’re going to go. Do you want the suitcase?’

She shook her head, no. Hazel felt almost faint with relief. The duffel bag had been like a land mine, something that had to be stepped around with the greatest caution. She’d been afraid of what was in there for her whole adult life. She didn’t know which would be worse: if the things in the bag offered some clue as to why Stephen had done what he did, or if they didn’t. Her husband had defused the bomb, simply by tipping its contents out.

Owen had come back into the room with an empty box, into which he had put the school photographs and the rest of the papers. The few letters and cards, the paperback and a notepad from the duffel bag he placed on the top. Now was not the time to take them out and read. Now was the time, he knew, to just get this stuff shifted. Hazel watched him, then stepped over and placed the envelope with the medal on the top, before putting the lid on the box. Let it stay with Stephen’s things. It had belonged to Stephen, after all.