“Come on,” says Rachel, leading him toward the top of the ridge.

A family is having a picnic at the top. They have laid out a blanket and are passing sandwiches and a thermos flask. A man in pin-striped trousers is pointing. The children look bored. There are circles of sweat under the father’s pointing arms.

“There’s going to be a Canadian memorial up here,” she says. “I’ve read about it. They’ve launched a competition to design a monument.”

Harry thinks about Gabriel, once again struck by the enormity of the task of designing a memorial, of capturing and commemorating an experience in stone, to be seen for miles and forevermore. It seems so much more epic than framing it in a camera lens.

“That’s quite a responsibility,” he says.

They walk along the top of the ridge. The children behind them are now tumbling and giggling over a game of leapfrog. The father is still pointing. Harry circles, taking photographs until the film comes to an end.

“This heat,” she says.

They sit down and take in the view. Harry leans back, into the sharp grass, and shuts his eyes to the glare. The camera is heavy on his chest and the white light throbs through his closed eyes. He is very aware of the image of the wreath maker inside his camera. How can a chemical reaction between light and silver salts be such a weighty thing?

“You’ll get sunburnt,” says Rachel’s voice. “I can see you sizzling. I can almost hear you sizzling. You’ll be like a lobster by this evening.”

A headache is beginning to throb. He feels slightly too large for his own skin. “Is a lobster better than a weasel?”

He sits up and she hands him a bottle of lemonade, apologizing for the fact that it’s not cold. It hits the back of his parched throat, sweet and sharp. Rachel wipes the top of the bottle before she puts it to her own lips. Did his lips really once touch hers? Did he really dream the scene in his hotel room? He’s not quite sure that his memory hasn’t perhaps started to play tricks. A horse-drawn cart struggles to the top of the slope and sets up selling ice-cream wafers.

“The things you can buy on a battlefield these days.”

He shelters the camera under his jacket while he changes over the film. As he puts the used roll in his pocket he is very conscious of the face of the man imprinted on it.

“You look furtive,” observes Rachel.

“Just keeping it out of the sun. If the light gets in it will all just disappear.”

“It seems almost callous that the sun should shine, doesn’t it?” Rachel asks. “Almost cruel. It’s not weather for loss or regret. If only the light could make it all disappear.”

“Will you show me your photograph of David again?”