‘It’s funny to think that all these men,’ Hazel signalled the display cases with their silent red coats, ‘went out there to fight against the Russian invasion. Gave their lives, a lot of them. And now the Russians have got it after all. There didn’t seem to be so much as a whisper from the international community when they invaded, this time. I don’t mean it’s funny to laugh at,’ she added, in case her meaning had been mistaken.

‘No, of course,’ said the Colonel. ‘Shall we?’ And he led the way out and down the stairs.

‘Just one more room before we pause for refreshment,’ the curator told them. He selected a key from a large ring and unlocked a wooden door. The room within was circular, perhaps fourteen feet across. From ceiling to floor, the walls were lined with glass. Rows and rows and rows of medals gleamed in the electric light. Every one had been highly polished, their bright ribbons creating a mosaic of colour above each sphere or cross of shining metal.

‘We’re extremely proud of this room, obviously,’ said the Colonel.

‘These go up as far as Bosnia,’ explained the curator.

Hazel looked around her. It was a treasure trove, like something in a fairy-tale. She wondered how many of the recipients of these medals were still living. It felt right, that all their decorations should be assembled here, together, as the men themselves had been, side by side, when they performed the deeds whose awards these were. It was like an Aladdin’s Cave of courage. Hazel felt a rush of something like gratitude, that she had been granted a glimpse of it. She was certain, now, that she was doing the right thing.

Coffee things had been set out on a table in a room below, alongside a couple of stiff cardboard boxes. A small square cushion – like a pincushion – lay next to the boxes.

‘When you told us you were coming, we went into the archive. What you saw displayed upstairs is only a part of the collection: two-thirds of it is stored away, in Wrexham. Anyhow, we asked them to have a look and see if there was anything under the name Gale and, as you will see, we found some things which we thought would be of interest to you. I had them brought over for your visit.’

Hazel was touched and curious. They sipped at their coffee. Once their cups were empty, the curator lifted the lids from the boxes.

‘We’re supposed to make people wear conservation gloves, handling these. But I think we can make an exception, for you,’ said the Colonel.

Within a cloud of tissue paper was a battered-looking winter fur cap. ‘This belonged to your William Gale’s younger brother. We think it must have been his sister who gave his things to the Regiment, a Caroline Gale?’