He unfolded Hazel’s note. Almost thirteen, she had begun to dot her i’s with little circles and he saw that she had drawn a couple of smiley faces after her name, in place of kisses. ‘Hi Stephen, we waved you goodbye, did you look down and see us? We didn’t know which was your plane so we waved at all of them.’ He hadn’t stopped to consider that they might not have driven straight home. It was touching to picture them craning upwards as one jet after another sailed away into the blue, taking their brother, their son, so far away from home. Hazel went on: ‘I baked some brownies, they were pretty good. Dad had three! Lydia in my class is having a pyjama party on Saturday for her birthday, I hope Caroline Mackenzie won’t come she was mean to me. When you come back I will let you win at Monopoly! Please write to me, your sis Hazel Nut.’ He felt guilty now for not having written to his sisters. He’d been so caught up with the Clarkes and their world that he’d barely thought of his own family.

Celia and Nick appeared with French bread and cheese for lunch and tomatoes in a brown paper bag. Once they’d made sandwiches and were sitting down, Stephen handed her the family tree and the photograph of the painting.

‘Well, that’s Gale, certainly,’ said Celia. ‘I wonder how your father came to have this. We’ve only got a photograph from much later, when he’s all whiskers.’ There was a trace of indignation in her voice.

‘My mum says in the letter, hold on … “The portrait miniature was bequeathed to Gale’s first wife, Alice, by his sister Caroline, along with various other effects. Her capital and property went to her nephew George, né Gale; who later went under the name George Nolan.’

‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten about the first wife. We’re descended from the second one, Sarah. They had three daughters and the youngest, Harriet, was my great-grandmother. I looked it up, after we’d talked about it the other day. At least I think that’s it, it’s so hard to keep track of the different generations.’

‘Is this your Boer War man?’ asked Nick, glancing at the photograph.

‘Crimea, not Boer,’ said Celia. ‘Although they’re all a bore, aren’t they? Not the people, but the wars. Nothing drearier than battles and dates.’

Celia handed the papers back to Stephen.

‘Mum says you can keep the picture and the family tree.’

‘Oh. How kind,’ said Celia. ‘I wonder why your fellow George changed his name, does your mother know?’

‘I’ve never asked her. I could enquire in my next letter if you like?’

‘Perhaps he was a criminal of some kind,’ said Celia.