I explained to him that, based on what I could see, the items appeared to be early to mid-17th century. The cargo had probably belonged to a merchant’s ship, one of the many that had been lost on the famous Texel Roads during that period. The Roads had been a popular shipping route used by Dutch sailing vessels to import wood from Norway and grain from the Baltic. The fabric for the dress could have been woven in Holland by Amsterdam silk-weavers or a family of French Huguenots who’d fled to London to escape religious persecution after the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Or it could be Bursa silk, spun during the Golden Age of the Ottoman Empire when Turkey and Syria competed with China and Persia to supply fine textiles for use in both clothing and household furnishings. Intricate floral patterns woven onto silk panels in gold and silver thread were just as likely to be found on dresses as on cenotaphs, the waxy pomegranates and delicate peony blossoms twined through Qur’anic verses honouring the dead. ‘What you need,’ I said, ‘is a professional who’ll be able to stabilise the artefacts and make a proper assessment.’

‘Great. So, when are you available?’

‘You want me to do it?’

‘Of course! Why do you think I made contact?’

Ouch. That stung. Maybe my rejection of Bram’s invitation had bothered him more than I thought. He’d asked me to visit the island on other occasions but I’d always found some excuse. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to see him; I valued our friendship possibly more now than when we were children. While memories of my parents were like vague shadows glimpsed through smoky glass, the ones I retained of Bram and his family were vividly clear. His occasional updates were a reminder that I hadn’t sprung into the world fully formed at the age of sixteen. I had a past, a history, even if it was one I selectively chose not to think about. Cocooned in the cosy, protective warmth of Bram’s family, of which I was an honorary member, I’d had no reason to delve deeper into those experiences I’d shared with my parents that were potentially unstable and served no good purpose. Occasionally, if I was exhausted, my mind would seek them out, returning to old hurts and bitter accusations, replaying them over and over like scenes in a movie. Reprisal never brought relief. Bram had never harassed me to return to Texel. He had always accepted my excuses with mild diplomacy. Now I wondered whether the needle on his internal bullshit meter had been swinging wildly the whole time we were speaking, the current of my lies forcing the needle all the way to the right.