‘We don’t think so.’ She slides the cards out. ‘We tried that angle, don’t think we didn’t. The cards are English, Victorian or Edwardian. The senator was on the delegation that negotiated the Paris Treaty with Spain at that time. Was he given them then? Are stories of that time on the records? That’s the only link we could think of, and it doesn’t seem like much. What story did Talbot Baker have that was so worth recording? Something of the Civil War?’

She stares at the display a little longer – the watch, the soldier, the records, the cards. A long-gone senator is lost in there somewhere.

‘I don’t think you’re ready to let these go yet,’ I tell her. ‘I think you might have started with the wrong box. If you want my objective opinion. Despite how this feels, some packing is easy. Maybe start on something where you don’t feel the same level of attachment.’ Where there’s no Walter, no thoughts bubbling to the surface. In Ellen Baker, there is a clear-thinking pragmatist who has been derailed. ‘In the long term, maybe you’ll decide to keep a lot and you’ll hire some storage near where you’ll be living. Or maybe you won’t. But for the staging and showing of your house, the next month maybe, I have room in my storage unit in Anchorage. I mean, one day I’ll bring new stock in, but not right now.’

‘Oh, I . . .’ She shakes her head, leans back as if she needs to see me head-to-toe.

My phone rings. It’s Lacy. ‘I’d better . . .’

‘Oh. Oh, my goodness.’ Ellen steps back. ‘I’ve kept you here as some kind of history hostage.’ She flaps her hand in the direction of my phone. ‘Answer it. Answer it.’

‘Just letting you know I’m awake,’ Lacy says, her voice soft, not long out of sleep. ‘And Cedar’s home. Caleb started vomiting, so they shipped Cedar out of there right away. He’s washed his hands, a full two minutes. I wiped his bag down.’ I tell her I’ll be home soon, and she says, ‘Everything’s good. Just letting you know I’m awake.’

Ellen is still apologetic as she leads me to the workshop door and out into the daylight. The sun is a glow in the pale cloud, threatening to break through. Dew still glints in the grass. Ellen takes me back through her house to the front door.

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ she says, ducking eye contact as we stand there. ‘That was more than I’ve talked all month. It’s just me here now.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. There’s still a lot of Walter.’

She nods. ‘I talk to him. Every day about one thing or another. It’s easier than not.’