At the top are more framed photographs of Charles and the children: first day at school, in a playground, in the school play. There’s a professional picture of Clare and Charles on their wedding day; one of Mum and Dad in the French Residence, when Dad was given the Légion d’honneur for his work reinterpreting Marxism for the post-industrialised world.

And then I freeze. It’s me and Clare, similar ages to Sam and Luke now, holding hands outside London Zoo. Clare is cradling a small monkey that’s wearing a spangled waistcoat and Arabian pantaloons. There was some kind of organ-grinding traveller who owned the monkey, I remember. He charged maybe ten shillings for children to excitedly clutch the exotic animal and have their picture taken. It would be banned today. Too cruel. But the picture is a window and I lose control. I weep, as quietly as I can, trying not to drip tears on the photo.

There’s more, and I need to speed up, because I want to have a few more minutes with the boys before I have to leave for work. Under the photos is the bike helmet, which I can barely bring myself to touch. Then a mug adorned with the Spurs’ cockerel, and another with the Beatles’ Apple logo. One for pens and one for tea, by the looks of them.

Finally, right at the bottom, is a black leather Filofax. My hands tremble slightly as I open it. Turning through a few pages, I see Clare’s familiar, geometrically precise handwriting: her appointments and meetings, but also notes and scribbled thoughts. I can’t really concentrate enough to take them in properly, though I can see she jots down times of meetings and brief notes to remind her of what was said or agreed. There is a reference to her telling the Chancellor to stop bothering ‘JM’. Which prompts me to wonder why Jeremy didn’t return her stuff earlier. Maybe he didn’t want us to see the clues to his affair. I feel let down by him, but not for long. I hear cackles and splashes and Charles’s plaintive voice trying to get the boys into their bath.

After the calendar, there’s a section of ruled pages for notes. Clare seems to have used this as a sort of mental dumping ground. Lines from poems and song lyrics; shopping lists and meal plans; books that people have recommended; funny things the boys have said. Scribbled sums – mortgage payments next to the public sector borrowing requirement. There are longer chunks of text too, where she’s had something on her mind she wanted to remember.

And, right at the end, there is something that is almost a short essay. She’s noted the date at the top of the page: 2 March, 1997. The day before her accident.

I read.