“We dinnae go away. Mum doesnae like to leave here. She says it makes her worse. With time ’n’ all.” With time. There are so many questions I’d like to ask him on that, but I don’t know how to frame any of them for a seven-year-old, so I don’t say anything at all. “I’d like to go to Disneyland, though,” Callum adds wistfully. “My friend Josh has been and he said it was brilliant.” Then he picks up two toys, crashes them together and makes fighting noises before asking, “What were you going to do if I hadnae visited today?”

“Nothing terribly interesting. I was thinking of sorting through some boxes in the attic.” And of getting some security cameras installed.

“The attic? Cool! Can I see?”

“Sure. Though it’s not really an attic. It’s just a small storage room on the top floor that I’ve taken to calling an attic.”

But Callum is still intrigued, so we climb the stairs to the attic, and he’s endearingly enthusiastic about everything, even the dust. I’m starting to realize that it’s an incredibly attractive characteristic, enthusiasm. There has not been enough enthusiasm in my life lately. Maybe not ever.

“There are paintings here!” he says.

“Yes. My mum was a painter. They’re just old canvases.”

“No, this one is finished,” he says. “It’s all wrapped up.”

I go to see what he’s looking at. In among what I had taken to be discarded canvases is a proper packing crate. I’ve seen enough of them in my mum’s studio to recognize them, but this is a smaller size than she usually used. Callum is peering in one end, where it’s been levered open. I pull out the crate carefully. It’s about three feet by four feet—the piece itself must be much smaller than she usually painted.

“Can I see it?” asks Callum.

“Yes. Let me just . . . Ah, here we go.” The crate had been opened and only loosely shoved back together; I’m able to pull it open. “Oh, careful, Callum. Let me be the one to touch it.” It’s probably worth a fair bit, given most of my mother’s paintings are. I pull it out and prop it against the packing crate for us to look at it properly. It’s mainly dark, blacks and midnight blues.

“What . . . what is it?” asks Callum.

“I don’t know,” I say, half laughing. “I think you’re supposed to decide for yourself.” I take a quick photo of it. Technically it’s mine, I suppose. Perhaps I will ask Pete to sell it for me.

He squints at it dubiously. “Well. I suppose it could be a house. Or a storm. Or a sea. At night.”

“It could be. Any of those.” We are both laughing now.

“Did your mum sell her paintings?”