‘…one of their seemingly eccentric requirements was that they leave everything in the house. Once we moved in, we discovered that this meant everything. Tea towels folded in the drawer. Potato masher on its peg. A sewing box complete with rusted pins. Sheets, pillowcases, pictures, books. Each item was labelled – and not only by them, but by the previous owners, and those before them. A house full of objects, labelled back to 1949. "Amethyst". A sticker clung to the felt base of a rock. "Low beam". The words jumped as you hit your head. My favourite: "Spare key for spare room telephone", followed closely by another favourite, a label rolled into a jug: "Does not pour very well".’
‘There was something else in the house, unmentioned and unlabelled. A sort of shadowy presence that hovered by the back door. No one referred to it, so I kept quiet, but without ever really actually seeing anything I knew it was a boy. A boy of about 10 or 12, in short trousers and a cap. I acknowledged him as I walked by, much as I would acknowledge a single magpie, with a dip of the head and a murmured incantation. "I know you're there," I'd say under my breath. "It's all right, I know you're there." I imagined he had somehow come with the house from its old site, that he was one of those surviving brothers. Or a boy from the family of the girl who drowned. He was sad, and proprietorial, had one lame leg, and although he didn't wish me any ill, I accepted he had been there a lot longer than me.’