In the kitchen we heat tomato soup on the gas ring, eat it with toasted slices of white bread from a packet. Bicker briefly about this bread, how it’s a nasty cheap dough inflated by steam—Tom’s view—and makes jolly nice toast—mine. The two opinions aren’t incompatible.

“I dunno,” he says finally, after taking the edge off his appetite. “I can’t work out what you’re doing. With your life, I mean.”

I aim for a reasonable tone. “You don’t have to. That’s my concern.”

“Weren’t you happy at Fulbrook?”

“I was perfectly happy. I simply needed something new.”

He laughs. “Says Steptoe. You know, Steptoe and Son? With the junk shop full of the most amazing ancient crap?”

“Where? I don’t remember them.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a TV show.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t watched enough television to be able to follow your conversation. Perhaps you never noticed that I spent every evening working—”

“Oh, here we go—”

“After helping you with homework, tidying the house, doing the dishes—”

“Begging your pardon?”

He’s pointing a spoon at me. It’s not a very accusatory sort of thing, a soup spoon. I can’t remain affronted.

“Okay, I grant you the dishes.” I look at him fondly. “You were a good boy.”

“Where are you going to put Mum’s urn?”

Of course he’d want to know. He sounds wary and I don’t blame him. The house is so bleak.

“I’m sure we can find somewhere. Let’s go upstairs.”

—

The box we need is in the room I’ve chosen for my bedroom. I pull away the packing tape and lift out the urn. A cylindrical jar of chased silver, six inches high, handed down from her father. Always a bit lighter than I think it’s going to be. She brought it with her from Alexandria, a pretty thing to grace her dressing table. Toward the end she talked about her ashes being scattered somewhere, but she never named a place. So for ten years we’ve kept her with us.

I pass it to Tom, who takes it in both hands. He casts his eyes around the bedroom before making his way to the fireplace, a small clean black-leaded grate. He places the urn on the mantelshelf above it. He stands back, eyeing the jar, and then nudges it just a touch to the right. When he’s satisfied that it is sitting in the exact middle of the shelf, he kisses his fingers and strokes the kiss onto the lid.

“Where’s that tiny little wooden chest?” he asks.

“What?” I’m still recovering from the impact of my son’s gestures, their grace and tenderness in this dark, cheerless room.