“You know. The one with the sand in.” He goes back to the packing box. “The sand from her favorite beach in Alexandria, what did you say it was called?”

“Stanley.”

“No, it wasn’t Stanley.” He darts a look at me. “I remember you said, Sidi something—”

“Sidi Bishr, yes. I haven’t seen that chest for years, Tom, there’s no point rummaging . . .”

But he is, he’s rummaging with gusto. He lifts out a lampshade, a single canvas sneaker, and a cardboard folder labeled Sermons, 1956. “Honestly, Dad. This could have been packed by a burglar.”

“There was so much to do, I just chucked everything in. Leave it, Tom. I’ve no idea where it’s got to.”

Too late, he’s holding the chest in his hand.

It’s made of cedarwood, with a barrel lid and brass hasp and hinges. Perhaps two inches by three. It looks even smaller, sitting on Tom’s open palm. Before I realize what I’ve done, I’ve reached out and taken it in my hand. He blinks in surprise.

“I was going to ask if I could have it,” he says mildly.

“Really?” I rack my brains for something I could give him instead. “Why don’t you take the photo albums? They’re much more interesting.”

“And a lot harder to carry.”

I struggle to speak, clutching the chest in my fingers, holding it close against my body.

“I feel this should stay next to Mum.”

“It was never next to her before. I remember. It was always on your bookshelf, in among all the clutter—”

“Tom . . .” I’m shaking my head. “I’m sorry—I don’t know what to say . . .”

“It’s okay, Dad.” He touches my arm, his eyes wide, full of bafflement. “It doesn’t matter that much. You’re right, the photos are more interesting.”

I set the little container on the mantelshelf. It’s true, it never used to sit beside Yvette, and now the arrangement isn’t symmetrical anymore. I’m seized by the urge to get these awkward boxes and their jumbled contents out of my sight. “Tom, can you help me put all this stuff in the attic? There’s nothing I need. I’ll sort it out later when I’ve got more time.”

Tom has found the photograph albums. Three heavy leather-bound books, containing Yvette’s childhood, youth, and our family life. “Is there an attic?” he says.

“Bound to be.”

On the landing we find a ladder propped against the wall. Above the ladder, a ceiling hatch. Tom climbs up, pushes the hatch upward with a clatter. “Bloody hell,” he splutters, coughing from the dust as he takes each box in turn from me and manhandles them into their new stowage. “No one’s been up here for a hundred years. And I can see a couple of holes in the roof. Broad daylight, Dad, showing through.”