Ella, sitting down too, listened quietly. No wonder, she thought, Gran had fallen in love with him all those years ago. She felt a sudden stab of sadness at the thought of what she had learnt recently: that this kind, lovable man was not her real grandfather.

Now, having learnt today how that came about, she could not help wondering about the man who overshadowed all their lives, even to this day; her grandfather, Matthew Hilton. Just what had he been like?

That night when Ella went up to bed, she paused on the landing, listened a moment and then, holding her breath, stealthily lifted the latch on the door of her grandparents’ bedroom. She tiptoed across the room to the mantelpiece and, holding the candle she carried higher, picked up the photo of the man in the old-fashioned uniform.

In the flickering light she gazed down at the young face. So this was Matthew Hilton. This was her real grandfather and he was Rob’s grandfather too. No wonder the photograph had reminded her of Rob.

Ella chewed thoughtfully at her lip. Kate, her mother, had inherited the auburn hair of her own mother, Esther. But she, Ella, was neither dark like her grandfather, nor auburn like her mother and grandmother. So, from whom did she get her blonde hair?

There could only be one answer: from the man who was her father.

Carefully, she replaced the photograph and went into her own bedroom. She stood in the centre of the room and her gaze was drawn towards the huge blanket box in the corner where she knew all her mother’s belongings were still stored and had been ever since they had been brought from their home in Lincoln. Almost holding her breath, she tiptoed across the room and lifted the heavy lid. She propped it open with the lift-up bar at one side and, almost with a kind of reverence, she lifted out her mother’s handbag. The leather was stained and the fastener was rusty. She forced it open and the fusty smell of sea-water wafted from its interior. The memories crowded into her mind and she swallowed hard. Such a feeling of loneliness and longing flooded through her that Ella felt like the ten-year-old girl she had been then when she had packed her mother’s things into this chest. She hadn’t opened it since that time, not once. Even now, she still wanted to close the lid and leave the sad memories locked away. But if she wanted to find any clue about her father, then she had to search her mother’s papers.

Determined not to be diverted, she took a deep breath, put in her hand and pulled out all the items still resting there. All the personal, intimate things brought her mother’s presence suddenly into the room. The girl swayed and clutched at the side of the chest.

‘Oh, Mum,’ she whispered, ‘I still miss you so.’