‘Forgive me for being so forward, Ms Baaker, but I must ask you for a favour on behalf of my mother and the other society members. We understand the political delicacy surrounding the dress and the unusual circumstances of its retrieval. We don’t have the resources to preserve something so valuable for any extended length of time. It makes sense that the collection should be taken to the mainland for observation and restoration. But we were hoping you might be able to convince the Noord-Holland government to allow us to exhibit them here on Texel for a few weeks. We’ve already discussed it this morning over video phone. Eva van der Berg, the matriarch of one of Texel’s oldest families, passed away last year and bequeathed a significant amount of money to the historical society for the preservation of local Texel culture. Her directives were a little vague so there’s been some heated debate over the dispersal of the funds but everyone on the committee agreed that this is exactly what Eva would have wanted. She was a passionate woman and she would have loved everyone to see the dress for themselves. If everything goes to plan, we’d want you to do the conservation side of it, of course. We could host the exhibition here, in this room; it would only take us a month or so to move everything and install the proper equipment. Please consider it. It would mean so much to the community. We’re proud of our heritage, and the presence of something so precious and unusual would strengthen our connection to the past and to each other. You understand, being an old Texeller yourself.’

Her gaze was so intense, I found it difficult to look away. That old Texel pride. I knew it well, or used to. Spending the past week in the company of Bram and his friends had brought it all back in vivid technicolour. Even Marieke possessed that streak of stubbornness, although Australia had replaced Texel in her affections. Marieke maintained she’d thrown away my parents’ belongings without consulting me first because she hadn’t wanted anyone going through their things. She was worried one of the reporters would find something incriminating, some gossip that could be used against them, tarnishing their memory. I’d accepted her reasons at the time, but now I found myself wondering about my childhood home, what had become of it, whether the wallpaper in my old bedroom was still there, and remembering the loose floorboard under my bed where I’d hidden a packet of cigarettes and a gemstone bracelet I’d stolen from the pharmacy, but hadn’t had the guts to wear. Those memories were stronger now that I was back, as if I’d upended a puzzle inside my head and each turn revealed another piece of myself.