They played two more rounds of hide-and-seek. Then Susan made lunch—leftover lentil soup, crackers, and tall glasses of Irn-Bru.

“Mother doesn’t let us drink soda,” Evie said, dipping a cracker into her Irn-Bru.

Hugh took a big gulp, then burped.

“Hugh,” Evie said, giving her brother an elbow.

“Sorry,” Hugh said.

Susan took a drink of her soda—a sweet, citrusy orange concoction. She much preferred a glass of water or a cup of black tea. But she was glad to have made the purchase, if only to create a memory.

They spent the afternoon, as they usually did during the children’s visits, with the pigeons. Along with the loo, the loft was one of the few surviving remnants on the property. Although the structure had been reduced to warped and rotted boards, Susan had had it restored by a local handyman. Except for a plastic grain barrel and the fact that there were only a dozen pigeons, the loft looked much as it did before the war.

Unlike their mother, Clover, who seemed to have an innate fear of feathered reptiles, Hugh and Evie adored pigeons. Often during the children’s visits, they’d each select a pigeon, tie a color-coded ribbon around its leg, then take a road trip to Clacton-on-Sea. Without the aid of cages, there were occasional droppings on the seats and several episodes of pigeons flying freely about inside the car, which required them to keep the windows rolled up. After arriving in Clacton-on-Sea, they’d toss their respective pigeons into the air, jump back into the car, and race home. But they never knew who had won. The pigeons always arrived first. And Evie and Hugh never seemed to mind, since Susan always stopped on the way home for ice cream.

“You’re lovely, Bashful,” Evie said, stroking a pigeon’s back.

The pigeon cooed.

Hugh plucked a rather hefty pigeon from its cubby, held it above his head like a trophy, and said, “Buzz Lightyear is faster.”

Susan chuckled. Most of the pigeons were named after the Seven Dwarfs, the remainder after various animated movie characters. Susan thought of her grandfather. Bertie, fond of naming all his racing pigeons after remote Scottish landmasses, none of which he had ever visited, would have been appalled of such commercialized naming. But she didn’t mind the daft labels. After all, she’d once done the same thing. A lifetime ago.

They spent the afternoon in the loft, until a car horn sounded. Hugh and Evie tucked the pigeons they were holding back into their cubbies and ran outside. Susan stepped from the loft, purposely leaving her cane inside, and gingerly walked to Clover’s shiny black sedan that was parked in the drive.

Clover checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, then lowered the window.

“You’re early.” Susan stepped to the car, its engine still running.

“I have a meeting tonight, remember?”