Along with a letter, Tom has enclosed a handful of photographs. I shuffle through them where I stand, all thoughts of a hot bath forgotten. The first picture, which is black and white, shows our tiny garden at Alver Shore. Yvette is standing by the washing line, her head on one side, giving me an admonishing pout, not remotely delighted at being photographed in her pinafore. Her hair is bound up in a checked kerchief. The second and the third are both color, taken at Fulbrook: in one she’s on an autumn walk with my parents, in the other building a snowman with Tom. Both the scarves are dark and indistinct but they’re definitely wintry and woolen.

The fourth photograph, I know instantly from the light, was taken in Egypt. She’s sitting in the stern of a rowing boat. I’m next to her, looking at her, my eyes almost closed, and she’s smiling at the camera. In this picture a thin scarf is tied jauntily around her neck with the knot at one side. In the dim light of the hall I can’t make out any details on the fabric. I rummage in the pocket of my black jacket and retrieve the paper bag containing the scarf. Taking bag, letter, and photographs to the kitchen I lay out the bright-blue-and-orange silk once more on the table. The cars of the little train jumble their way through the mountains; in the meadow the farmer’s wife waves beside her lowing cow. Weaving through the scene, the banner of text: LE PETIT TRAIN DÉPARTEMENTAL.

The photograph is black and white, so there are no colors to guide me. And it’s very overexposed—a sure sign that Célia, who would be the first to say she’s no photographer, was behind the camera. Apart from a couple of rumpled dark splotches and a single pencil-thin curve, the design on the scarf Yvette was wearing has been bleached out. I narrow my eyes, trying to make the blotches into the roofs of the train carriages, wondering if that bending line might be the cow’s horn. But I can’t fool myself. These features could just as easily be flowers. And if this scarf on the kitchen table was folded up enough times to make Yvette’s appealing little necktie, the best-taken photograph in the world wouldn’t have shown the design properly. The resulting band of fabric was too narrow.

Bailey, from outside the door, gives a soft woof. I let him in. I read Tom’s letter while my hot bath is running.