The second thing I remembered happened in their house in Cheltenham. It was a big house, and well organized, with polished wood and polished floors and carpets, with a drawer for each set of knives and a special place on a special shelf for each jam dish and gravy boat. Usually I slept in Mary’s room, but one year, I forget why, I was put in the small spare room. Just before I went to bed on the first night, I had a good look round, opening all the drawers and cupboards I could see: they were all empty and neatly lined with spare wallpaper, except for the last one I opened. I had expected to find nothing at all in any of them, but in the last drawer, which was the one in the bottom of the wardrobe, I came across a quite amazing collection of old junk. There were old broken dirty shoes, a greasy old recipe book, bottles half full of patent medicines whose brands no longer existed, a broken bedpan, a large moth-eaten embroidered pincushion, a lot of shoe trees, some plugs and bits of wire and two beer bottles. I could not have been more surprised if I had truly found a skeleton.