The medals beneath the glass of the top layer were nice: silver and shiny, with colourful ribbons. If you didn’t know, you’d think they were the interesting ones. The ones on the lower layer looked somehow a bit shabby. Maybe no one had ever given them a polish. It was true what Celia had said: the Victoria Cross was the dullest-looking one of all, the least eye-catching. Stephen lifted the lid and picked them up in turn. One had a faded crimson ribbon edged with green, with an enamelled crescent moon encircling a star, and what looked like Arabic lettering in a circle around a mini sunburst. There was a silver one which had a portrait of a young Queen looking left, and above it little scrolls with tiny acorns at either side which bore the words: Alma, Inkermann, Sebastopol. Lastly, he picked up the Cross and closed his fingers around it, so that the points dug into his skin. It was dingy on the landing, so he wandered back to his room and stood by the window, to look at it more closely. He could have fitted another three of them on to the flat palm of his hand. It wasn’t as heavy as it looked. The ribbon was a dull colour, like the dregs of red wine in an unwashed glass.

It felt weird to Stephen, to think that his great-great-grandfather had held this medal, had treasured it. It’d probably been his proudest possession. He might have looked at it every day, might have picked it up and held it in his hand, just as Stephen now did. On the front was a lion standing on top of a crown – completely out of scale – and the words For valour. It occurred to Stephen that valour was a word he had never spoken, and would probably never have occasion to speak, as old-world and foreign to him as the medal itself. He wondered about the deed that had won it. He picked it up and turned it over. There was a date inscribed there. He thought he might like to find out about it, teach himself some of the history around it. Then he heard Cass calling him from the bottom of the stairs, and he was jolted back into the present. He needed to find a clean T-shirt and socks.

At the kitchen table there was no sign of Celia or Nick, but Cass was already sitting, a mug of tea in her hands. She looked grey and shaky.

‘I’ve made you a boiled egg and some toast,’ she said. ‘It may’ve gone a bit hard by now.’

‘Aw, thanks. Is Hamish still here?’ he asked her.

‘No, he went when it got light. We didn’t get much sleep. Jesus. That was not fun.’

‘Yeah. Pretty rough.’

‘Mum suspects. She’s not in the best mood.’

‘You do look pretty awful,’ said Stephen.

‘Thanks.’

‘I didn’t mean …’

‘I know.’