‘Well, we’ll pin it up, then,’ Bee said, as if her sister was either very small or very stupid. ‘God, Loo, it’s not – stay here, and don’t let Cathy see you.’ She opened the door, then turned back, her expression stern. ‘Don’t move a muscle,’ she said, before ducking out of the room and running lightly across the landing, disappearing into their parents’ bedroom.

They had found the box in the pantry, shoved out of sight under the shelves, and had brought it up to their room while their mother, Cathy, was busy in the garden with everyone else. The cardboard was speckled with damp and there was bold blue print running along one side: golden wonder. It was old, but not as old as the clothes they’d found inside.

Cathy wouldn’t be pleased. She might even take it away; it wasn’t really theirs, after all. She might want the clothes – for that was all the box held, petticoats and nightgowns and camisoles, a lot of them, too much for one person, surely – she might insist they hand them over to their rightful owner, whoever that might be.

Bee was taking ages. Loo ran her hands across the fabric, trying to smooth out the deep creases that criss-crossed the skirt, some of them a faint brown. The fabric was paper-thin and she wondered if it might tear if she pulled it hard enough. What Bee would say if she did.

It was stuffy in their bedroom. She went to the window and, pushing it as far open as she could, she leant out.

They were still there, all the grown-ups and Flor and the baby, sitting on the grass under the apple tree at the far end of the garden, not doing much, any of them; it was too hot.

Simon was sitting next to Issy, and they were talking to each other. Loo wondered what they might be saying. Issy raised her hand to her face to shade her eyes whenever she spoke and Simon leant in close, as if he was whispering secrets in her ear.

Odd words drifted up to the open window, but nothing that made much sense. Issy laughed once or twice and Loo suddenly wished they would look up, one of them, see her, smile. She leant further out, bracing her hands on the window ledge, on the warm, blistered paint, letting the sun bake her arms.