217 Babel Street | Apartment 7
Margaret’s things.
One half-finished piece of knitting, red and white wool. Harry says: “She was unable to carry on, towards the end. Too fiddly. And then too painful.”
Jigsaw puzzles and crossword books.
Many photographs. One of them showing the younger Sophie with her friend Damien, holding hands, laughing in the hills. College days. Sophie: “Damien is living here now, in flat 14. Did you know?” Harry shakes his head. “Will you see him?” Sophie admits that she might have to. “Unfinished business.”
Personal letters. Love letters. Harry touching these, not daring to open them.
Several dozen detective novels, including the Donna Townes series.
A diary.
One golden cube puzzle, almost completed. Sophie adds a piece, leaving only two more to be slotted in.
One pair of binoculars. One notebook, containing the comings and goings of the metal-detector man. Harry: “I would bury little things on the beach for him to find. I did it just for Margaret. She used to sit here at the window, watching. It made her happy, I think.”
Jewellery box, containing a pearl necklace, five rings, several brooches, assorted trinkets.
Vinyl records: Ella Fitzgerald; Frank Sinatra; Perry Como; Tom Jones.
Baby clothes, old and moth-eaten now. Sophie takes hold of these, caressing them. Harry watches her. He prays to the Lord that she keeps quiet, just for now, just for these few days together, the ceremony. Just to be good, to pay respect.
Margaret’s things.