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inferior stuff up here, as Peter wanted our social rooms to present our best
     face to the world. I collected a jug from the washstand in Lucinda’s room, a soap-dish from our room, and one of the two toilet
     cans. We could not spare the chamber-pots, or the tin hip-bath, but I scanned the medical provisions with which we had tried
     and failed to keep Peter’s rheumatism at bay – bandages, flannels, bloodletting ribbon, scissors, lint, spoons – and tucked
     the empty apothecary’s bottles into the jug to give to the rag-and-bone man. But the rooms were bare enough already; there
     were no pictures to remove from the walls, no rugs of any worth. I knew, as I went downstairs with my haul, that I was choosing
     to ignore my parents’ suitcase that hid in the box-room. I could scarcely remember what it contained, but, apart from the
     bracelet made of my mother’s hair that I kept round my wrist, it was all I had left of them.
    But sentiment did not entirely override practicality; I came upstairs again and went to the ottoman at the foot of our bed,
     and took out the yards of black crêpe. It was the veil that I had worn every day for the six months after my parents died,
     and it had since lain there for nearly five years. It had gone stiff, coarse and crackly, as if it had rusted all over, as
     crêpe is wont to do. I took it downstairs, and Lucinda helped me spread it out and inch it slowly over the steam coming off
     the kettle, and then we sprinkled it all over with alcohol, rolled it up in The Illustrated London News , and laid it by the hearth to dry. The next morning, when still there was no Peter, we unrolled it, aired it by the fire,
     and carried it out into the street.
    We knocked on Mrs Eeles’s door. She opened it cautiously, as if to check we weren’t foxes coming to raid her hen house. ‘You’ve
     just caught me. Come in, dearies.’
    Without her mourning cloak she was formidable: she was wearing a shabby old black lace ball-dress, with sizeable frayed ribbons
     that picked her hems up in dramatic loops, under which splayed out sections of black gauze petticoats. On her nose were pince-nez
     eye-glasses, and on her fingers a selection of jet rings.
    ‘Oh my, oh my, what is that you are carrying? Is that really? Could it be? May I have a look?’
    We laid the veil out on the faded flowers of her couch. The room was surprisingly colourful for one preoccupied with mortality:
     the antimacassars were white, with a lavender lace edging; the rug had a deep blue pile, and every surface was covered in
     knick-knacks and figurines: two prancing china ponies; a trio of crystal owls; a miniature violin; a collection of thimbles;
     a selection of old silver tea-spoons with bone handles; a stack of prayer-books. There was also a chessboard, laid out ready
     for battle, which, along with a large number of framed photographs, was the only source of black in the room.
    ‘What have you brought me, dearie?’ Mrs Eeles asked.
    ‘Finest crêpe, and I bought it new, too. Only wore it for six months. I was hoping – I was wondering – if this would be of
     interest to you.’
    ‘Only one mourning?’
    ‘Two actually. Overlapping.’ I paused. I had presumed that the less wear the better; it had not occurred to me that successive
     grievings might have a cumulative effect, that sensations might linger and, indeed, one day, provide some sort of thrill.
     ‘My parents, you know,’ I added.
    ‘Oh, you poor little darling. Bless your sweet orphan soul.’
    ‘Would you – would you – consider taking this in lieu of rent?’ I asked.
    She fingered the crêpe thoughtfully, then bent her head down to it, and sniffed it noisily. ‘Two months, I’ll give you for
     it.’
    I was so stunned it did not even occur to me to negotiate. ‘Oh, thank you! Two months, yes, why, thank you, Mrs Eeles!’
    I was still reeling when I heard Lucinda say sweetly, ‘Oh, look, Mama, she’s sleeping!’ The photographs on a round