I stood, held the slip of paper as high as I could above the trunk and let go, then I watched it float down, swaying from side to side until it came to rest in one corner of the trunk.

“This is where it wants to be,” I said, bending down to smooth it flat. But it wouldn’t flatten. There was a lump under the paper lining that covered the bottom of the trunk. The edge had already lifted, so I peeled it back a little more.

“It’s not empty, Lizzie,” I said, as the head of a pin revealed itself.

Lizzie leaned over me to see what I was talking about.

“It’s a hat pin,” she said, reaching down to pick it up. On its head were three small beads, one on top of the other, each a kaleidoscope of colour. Lizzie turned it between her thumb and finger. As it spun, I could see her remembering it. She brought it to her chest, kissed me on the forehead then placed the pin carefully on her bedside table, next to the small photograph of her mother.

Our walk home to Jericho took longer than it should, because I was small and Da liked to meander while he smoked his pipe. I loved the smell of it.

We crossed the wide Banbury Road and started down St. Margaret’s, past tall houses standing in pairs with pretty gardens and trees shading the path. Then I led us on a zigzagging route through narrow streets where the houses were tightly packed, one against the other, just like slips in their pigeon-holes. When we turned into Observatory Street, Da tapped his pipe clean against a wall and put it in his pocket. Then he lifted me onto his shoulders.

“You’ll be too big for this soon,” he said.

“Will I stop being a littlun when I get too big?”

“Is that what Lizzie calls you?”

“It’s one of the things she calls me. She also calls me cabbage and Essymay.”

“Littlun I understand, and Essymay, but why does she call you cabbage?”

Cabbage always came with a cuddle or a kind smile. It made perfect sense, but I couldn’t explain why.

Our house was halfway down Observatory Street, just past Adelaide Street. When we got to the corner, I counted out loud: “One, two, three, four, stop right here for our front door.”

We had an old brass knocker shaped like a hand. Lily had found it at a bric-a-brac stall in the Covered Market—Da said it had been tarnished and scratched, and there’d been river sand between the fingers, but he’d cleaned it up and attached it to the door on the day they were married. Now, he took his key from his pocket and I leaned down and covered Lily’s hand with mine. I knocked it four times.

“No one’s home,” I said.