‘Well,’ I say, ‘why can’t you go see Grandma?’

‘Because we’re not invited,’ says Hanna, drawn back into the conversation in spite of herself.

‘Come on, you could just turn up if you wanted—’

Michel’s eyes go wide. ‘Turn up?’

Hanna says, ‘Agnes has only ever been to Sand Lane once, when she was a baby, and then only because we invited ourselves.’

Michel says, ‘We’re never fucking doing that again.’

The next morning I come downstairs to find Agnes playing by herself, singing and laughing at the top of her voice, the way children do when they are trying to block out something bad. In the kitchen, Michel and his mother are already at each other.

Michel says to Poppy, ‘Look, I don’t want to take it. I don’t want to take anything off you. Jesus. I just want to copy stuff.’

‘You’ll get it all when I’m dead anyway, I wouldn’t care.’

‘Why wait?’

‘I’m not having you clambering about the loft. I’m not having you up there stamping about in my things!’

‘Morning.’

Poppy runs to me, as best she can. ‘You speak to him!’ There is something magnificent about Poppy – the way she assumes I will take her side.

‘Speak to him about what?’

‘He’s going on about his father’s things again!’

‘Michel. I have told you before. These heirlooms traditionally belong in the family home. Now stop badgering your mother.’

Poppy’s self-satisfaction is priceless. ‘You see?’

Hanna comes in and sends Poppy and me packing. ‘There’s croissants and coffee in the sun lounge.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t manage a whole croissant.’

‘Whatever. Agnes! You see that Grandma has a good breakfast.’

Agnes, an eager gaoler, leads Poppy from the room.

‘That,’ I say, ‘was brilliant.’

‘Fuck off, Connie.’

‘And a merry Christmas to you.’

In the sun lounge, Poppy is staring at her croissant with revulsion, as if it were a dead rat or a large turd.

‘You know how this all started, don’t you?’ Poppy says, picking up her knife with a shaking hand.

Agnes is here to help. She tears her grandmother’s croissant in two and, with a sidelong look, shovels the larger half all the way into her mouth.

Poppy, oblivious, ineptly butters the shred that’s left. ‘It’s because—’ It suddenly occurs to her that Agnes is in the room. But Agnes, aware that another wave of boring grown-up gibberish is about to break over her lovely Christmas morning, is already on her way out.

‘I’m going to rehearse a show!’

Sotto voce from Poppy: ‘Agnes had a school project.’

‘Well.’ I go over and close the door. ‘I think it’s normal, when you’re a child, to want to know about your grandparents. It’s normal to be interested in that stuff.’

Poppy flaps her hands in irritated dismissal. ‘It’s not her. It’s the school. It’s ridiculous.’

‘Perhaps you should write a letter to the school explaining how ridiculous it’s being, and Agnes can take that in as her holiday project.’

You can say these things to Poppy because her self-defence is seamless. She only ever hears what she wants to hear. This has nothing to do with her age. She was always like this. In fact I would go so far as to say that, after a gap of almost twenty years, she hasn’t changed.

‘Michel’s never shown the slightest bit of interest in Louis until now.’

Louis? It occurs to me I’ve never heard the man’s name before. It’s always been ‘Dad’ from Michel or, from Poppy, ‘Michel’s father’.

‘This isn’t about Michel,’ I point out.

‘He’s never asked for anything of Louis’s before. He’s just got it into his head.’ She makes it sound as though he’s contracted an infection.

‘Is that a problem? Why is that a problem?’

Poppy’s trouble is that she has never really believed in communication. Information goes in but it never comes out, and if you force it out, it emerges so tortured, twisted, hedged around with all sorts of mysteries and qualifications, that it’s worse than useless and obscurely upsetting. ‘I had nothing from my family. I didn’t have anything of my mother’s or my father’s. Anyway, I don’t want to have to explain myself to you.’ Poppy is in tears now.

‘You don’t have to explain anything to me. Come on, Poppy.’

‘My home was sold from under me. Why should I have to explain myself to you?’

The next evening, once he has seen Poppy off at the station, Michel comes home and we try scanning and printing out Poppy’s photographs so that Agnes can have at least a couple of pictures of her grandfather for her Christmas project.

I suppose I had a very romantic notion of what a writer’s study should look like. Waxed floorboards. Kilims draped thickly over a daybed under the window. African masks on the walls. A desk piled with manuscripts and obscure books.

Michel’s den isn’t remotely like that. It is tiny, carpeted, and brutally functional. The walls are bare. The window is too high to see out of. On the far wall there is a small MDF bookshelf, stacked with copies of his own books. The desk is a sandblasted glass sheet on unvarnished wooden trestles. There’s a laptop, connected to a larger screen. A landline telephone. A desk lamp.

Michel sits at his screen. ‘Can you go round and sort the scanner out?’

The scanner/printer sits on top of a small drawer unit behind the desk, out of his reach. There’s nowhere for me to sit so I sit on the carpet, slipping the photographs out of their plastic wallet while the scanner clunks and whines. It is warming itself up, checking itself over with a painful attention to detail, like a geriatric man recovering from a fall. ‘It says it has low ink.’

‘It always says that.’

There are only three pictures that are any good, and even these are misframed. Either the top of Louis’s head is missing, or an ear, or his feet, as though some malign supernatural force had sought to presage the ugly manner of his death. He doesn’t look like a soldier, any more than Poppy ever came across as an army wife.

He looks worried in these photos – the very picture of introversion. As for Poppy, you would expect her to exhibit, if not a certain stiffness, at least a sense of make-do-and-mend, a resourcefulness that, even if it had not been there to begin with, would have been forced on her by years of relocation, loneliness, and the narrow social confines of the army life. Many years have gone by. It could all have been worn away by now, but the thing is, I have no memory of her being any tougher than she is now, or any more straightforward. ‘How long was Louis in the army?’

‘All his life.’

Which shows how much I know. ‘What did he do?’

‘He handled drones. Haven’t I told you all this?’

Disposable drones for mine clearance – lumbering, sand-ballasted, pressed-paper robots on all-weather tracks. Cardboard kamikazes. Not a front-line man at all. Just another code monkey who strayed too far, too confidently or carelessly down the wrong alley, not five hundred yards from the edge of the diplomatic zone.

‘Do you think about him much?’

‘What? No,’ he says. ‘No, not much.’

‘Do you remember him?’

‘Of course I remember him.’

‘It’s just—How old were you when—?’

‘Can you move it up? The photograph.’

I open the lid and nudge the photograph back into alignment on the glass.

‘No. Up. Up.’

I open the lid and turn the photograph around on the glass.

‘Now what are you doing?’

‘Up was down.’

‘What?’

‘Look, it’s no good just going “Up, up” – my up is not your up.’

‘For God’s sake.’

‘I’m sorting it out. Look, is that better?’

Michel grunts.

What captured Poppy’s gaze to make her frame her shots so badly? I imagine her always over-thinking things, turning every task into a problem. I must get his feet in. I must get that tree in. I mustn’t let the sun in. Let’s not have that stranger in the frame. And – oops.