I took the underwear and some bed socks from the shallow top drawer and put them into the carrier bag I had brought along for the purpose. I noticed several pairs of the fingerless gloves the old lady always wore, and grabbed some of those, too. Her meticulously ironed nightdresses were in the equally shallow drawer beneath, the lower three drawers deeper and reserved for bulkier items. I thought a bedjacket or something similar would be a good idea, and went through the drawers below to look for one. I recognised the fine knit of a pale green cardigan she often wore. As I pulled it out, the thread of one of the buttons caught in a crack in the corner. Cursing, I tried to winkle the button from the gap. As I did so the base of the drawer lifted. It had a false bottom.

Beneath the thin layer of hardboard was a crinkled sheet of tissue paper, yellowed with age, enveloping whatever was beneath. Cautiously, I peeled it away. I stepped back for a moment, stunned at what had been revealed. It was a layette of old-fashioned baby clothes. There were several of everything, all neatly folded. Muslin cloths, towelling nappies. Tiny vests, cardigans; bootees, bonnets. Old-fashioned romper suits with blue smocking; dresses, some trimmed with pink silk rosebuds, some with seed pearls. All faded white, some flecked with iron mould, all painstakingly crocheted and trimmed with silk ribbons and pearly buttons. And a beautiful knitted shawl, edged with lace.

I sat back on the bed and stared in disbelief at the contents of the drawer, my mind whirring. Had Mrs Barley lost her babies? Or had she wanted them so badly, prepared for them and never fallen pregnant? Is that what she’d meant when she said they ‘weren’t blessed’? I couldn’t possibly ask her. If she had wanted me to know, she would surely have volunteered the information. I had done nothing wrong but felt suddenly guilty, as though I had seen something I shouldn’t have.

Reeling from the discovery, I carefully replaced the base of the drawer. As I picked up the hard board, my fingers brushed against something stuck to the rough underside. Turning it over, I discovered a battered pale blue envelope, taped to the board by each of its corners. Handwritten in faded black ink was one word: Ginny. I knew it must be for Mrs Barley; Virginia Barley, although I never felt right addressing her by anything other than her formal title. Burning with curiosity, I paused for a moment, but then thought better of opening it. It would have been an invasion of her privacy – and being so well concealed, it was clearly meant for no one’s eyes but her own. Hurriedly taking the items I had come for, I descended the stairs and left the house, locking the door behind me.