The House of Memories

For my nieces and nephews, with lots of love

ONE

The first time I met my uncle Lucas I tried to steal something from him. It’s ironic, really, considering what he would ask me to do twenty-six years later.

I was seven, on a visit to London with my mother and my father, Lucas’s younger brother. We’d been traveling through my father’s native England on holiday from our home in Australia. I was too young to realize the trip was a last-ditch effort to keep my parents’ marriage afloat. Perhaps I should have guessed. Since we’d flown from Melbourne Airport two weeks earlier, they hadn’t stopped fighting.

Lucas lived in a three-story terrace house in west London, not far from Paddington Station, two blocks in from the Bayswater Road and close to Hyde Park. Not that I knew any of those landmarks then. I remember wondering who had to mow all the grass I could see through the park gates, and thinking the houses looked like wedding cakes. I also remember running up and down the steps outside Lucas’s house while we waited for him to answer our knock.

I was an only child at that stage, and was used to adult attention, but I was also used to living in the shadow of my parents’ arguments. I think they were fighting when Lucas opened the door. Not physically, just the usual exchange of well-crafted, well-spoken insults. I remember Lucas running a hand through his thick mop of brown curls and saying in his lovely deep voice, Still at it, you two? before getting down on his haunches, looking me right in the eye and saying with a big smile, Hello. You must be Arabella.

Ella, I said firmly. Even at that age, I hated my full name.

Ella, he said. Much nicer. Do you know what that is backward?

I nodded. Alle.

He held out his hand. Hello, Alle. I’m Sacul.

We followed him in, Dad and Lucas already in conversation, my mother trailing behind and complaining about her aching feet, caused by the high heels she’d insisted on wearing, though we were having a sightseeing-around-London-on-foot day. That might have been what she and my father were fighting about on the doorstep. Or it could have been any of a thousand other things. I was ignoring the adults by now, in any case. I was too busy looking around.

My parents had been here the previous year, visiting Lucas while on one of my father’s many business trips abroad. I’d not gone on that trip, remaining in Australia in the care of a family friend. My father worked in the mining industry—as an accountant, not underground—often traveling to the various locations owned by his multinational employer. Sometimes during school holidays Mum and I traveled with him. So I was used to staying in big hotels and luxurious apartments. But no place I’d seen compared to this house.

It wasn’t the high ceilings, the long hall, the staircase, the many doors, the fabric wallpaper or the books everywhere that grabbed my attention. It was the mess. The place was filthy. Not only that, there wasn’t a bare surface to be seen. Boxes overflowing with paper littered the hallway, producing a kind of maze effect. One long wall was lined with bookshelves reaching from floor to ceiling. Each shelf was so jammed it would have been difficult to slide in a pamphlet, let alone another book. Perhaps it smelled musty and unclean in reality, but in my memory it smelled of paper and old books and even woodsmoke. A barbecue? I wondered. No. I could see there was an open fire in a room off the hallway. A fire in summertime!

Just before Uncle Lucas ushered my parents into what he jokingly called the withdrawing room, he turned and handed me the key of freedom.

Go wherever you like, Ella. Touch whatever you want. Just try not to break anything.

I took off. He barely had time to offer my parents a cup of tea before I was back.

There’s someone in that room, I said, pointing across the hallway.

Male? Red hair? Glasses?

I nodded.

That’s Bill. One of my students.

Is this a school? I asked. Are you a teacher?

Two excellent questions, Ella. No, not exactly. And no, not exactly.

My father explained it more later, on the way back to our hotel in a taxi. (My mother had complained so much about her feet that we’d given up the plan to go walking and sightseeing.) Lucas was the brainbox of the family, my father told me. Honors in history at Cambridge. Groundbreaking research since. He was working on a new academic study, but in the meantime, he’d also thrown open his house to bright but impoverished students to live and study in.

"His house? my mother sniffed. It should have been your house too."

"His godfather left it to him, Meredith, not me, as I’ve told you a thousand times. And as I’ve also told you, I never wanted it, or needed it."

"It’s not about needing it. It’s the principle. It should have been divided between you. But no, you just let him have it. Because your problem is you’ll do anything to avoid confrontation."

My father ignored her and looked out the window.

"It’s the waste of it that gets me, my mother continued. He’s sitting on a real estate fortune, and what does he turn it into? A commune for pointy-heads."

I hadn’t known any of this as I’d first walked around the house that morning. All I got was a little jolt of excitement each time I opened a door to discover a student in a room. There was one in the kitchen, one in the front room, two upstairs and one on a kind of balcony at the back of the house, overlooking a small, overgrown garden. I counted five students, male and female, all either reading or scribbling or, in one case, measuring out liquid from one glass jar into another in the bathroom. If my memory serves me right, that particular student went on to work for NASA. All of them pretty much ignored me.

I’m Lucas’s niece, I said each time.

Hi, niece, was about as interactive as one of them got.

I did as I’d been told and roamed everywhere, through all three stories. At the very top of the house I found the best room of all. It was a converted attic, with a sloping roof, bookshelves everywhere and a kind of alcove in the corner where I could see an unmade bed, a lamp and more books. On the floor, a pile of notebooks with Lucas’s name scrawled on the covers confirmed that this was his part of the house. In the center of the room, not pushed against the wall like my father’s desk was in our Melbourne home, was his desk. It was as large as a dining table. And it was—like the rest of the house—covered in stuff: bundles of paper, folders, boxes, books. And more books. Every surface in the room was covered in books. And in any of the gaps left, there were foxes. Dozens of foxes.

My full name back then was Arabella Louisa Fox. Mum and Dad were Meredith and Richard Fox. Which meant, of course, that my uncle was Lucas Fox. He must love his surname as much as I do, I remember thinking. I ignored the books and started counting the foxes. There were seven framed paintings of foxes on the sloping walls. Five little statues of foxes on top of the cupboards and tucked into the bookshelves. A fox pattern on a lampshade. What looked like a candleholder with a brass fox at the base. And on the desk, right at my eye level, was a real fox. A real baby fox.

There wasn’t much light in the attic. None of the lamps were on, and the overhead light was turned off. The only light came in through the roof window. It seemed to shine directly on the golden brown fur of the baby fox, highlighting the glorious reds of its tail, sending a spotlight onto its little face and a gleam into its small, bright eyes. Eyes that were looking right at me.

It’s all right, I remember saying, edging toward it. I won’t hurt you.

I reached out and patted it gingerly, waiting for the snap of teeth, even while I hoped for a kind of purring sound. Did foxes purr? I wondered. The second I touched it, I knew that it wasn’t real. Or at least, it was real, it had been alive, but it wasn’t anymore. Its head was cold and still. Its back cold and hard. I ran my fingers along the fur. Several strands came off. I looked into its eyes. And whether it was because I was tired, or because my mum and dad fighting had left me jittery as it always did, I don’t know; suddenly that small dead fox on the desk made me sadder than I had ever been in my life.

You poor little thing, I whispered to it. You shouldn’t be here.

There was a piece of material on the floor, a length of curtain or an old dust sheet. I picked it up. I wrapped the baby fox in it. I put the bundle under my arm. I don’t know what I thought I was going to do with it, or how I’d slip out of the house without my parents and uncle noticing. It was summer and I was in a light dress, so I couldn’t even hide it under my coat. But I just remember feeling so protective and so sad, all at once. I was on a mission now. I was Ella Fox, Fox Rescuer.

I heard raised voices as I came down the stairs. My mother, then my father asking her to please mind her own business, then Lucas saying something I couldn’t hear, then my mother again. I’d thought this was a friendly visit. Perhaps it had started that way. I didn’t stand there, as I often did at home, eavesdropping. I slipped out through the front door. I wasn’t running away, not really. I think I only wanted to give the little fox some fresh air, a brief taste of freedom.

But Uncle Lucas didn’t know that as he looked out the front window. All he saw was his seven-year-old niece heading down his steps with a fabric-wrapped bundle under her left arm, the tail of a fox sticking out of it.

Afterward, Mum told me they’d thought it was very funny.

You certainly broke the tension, Ella, she’d said.

Lucas appeared at the front door just as I reached the bottom step. Ella? I stopped at the sudden sound of his voice, low and calm. Are you stealing my fox?

No, not exactly, I said, unconsciously echoing his own words from earlier.

No? Then what, exactly?

It looked lonely up there, I said. I was taking it for a walk.

My father appeared beside his brother. It’s dead, Ella. It’s a stuffed fox.

It looked lonely, I repeated.

Inside, Ella. Now, my mother said, appearing at Lucas’s other side. Give Lucas back his fox.

There was no more fuss made than that. In retrospect, they probably wanted to get back to their argument. I returned the fox to its home in the attic and patted it good-bye. I was about to kiss its little snout too, but then I caught sight of its tiny sharp teeth. I still felt sorry for it, but it had also started to give me the creeps.

We said good-bye to Uncle Lucas soon after.

Well, that was pointless, I remember my mother saying as our taxi pulled away.

What was pointless? I asked.

Never mind, my parents said as one.

I thought they meant Lucas was pointless, and I didn’t think that was nice. I liked him, I said, turning to gaze out the window, more wedding-cake houses on one side, the big park on the other. Him and his foxes.

A month later, back home in Australia, I’d received a parcel in the mail, postmarked Paddington, London. Inside was a letter from Uncle Lucas, complete with a footnote.

My dear FLN*

I’m so sorry I couldn’t let you keep the fox that day. It’s very precious to me. But I hope this little one will give you some pleasure. It’s also a bit easier to smuggle out of people’s houses.

Love from your London uncle,

Lucas

*Fox-Liberating Niece

It was a tiny gold fox on a key ring, just an inch long, but beautifully made, the detail of the fur and the fox’s features delicately done. I called it Foxy. Foxy the Fox. At first I carried it in my pocket as a good-luck charm, whispering to it whenever I was upset or if Mum told me off about something. Once I was old enough to have keys, it turned back into a key ring. Over the years, it had held keys for many houses, in different cities of Australia, in London and in Bath. The last time I had seen it was in Canberra nearly two years ago. I’d left it, with the apartment keys, on the kitchen table beside my farewell note to Aidan—

Stop!

Change your thoughts.

Look forward.

It’s always easier said than done. I’ve tried everything in the past twenty months—snapping an elastic band around my wrist, inhaling essential oils, meditation. I tried concentrating on my surroundings now instead, a suggestion I’d recently read in a book on managing difficult memories. Focus. Notice. Distract. Observe. I mentally listed everything I could see around me, forcing myself to take note of my surroundings, to be fully aware to where I was and what I was doing at this exact moment.

I was on the Heathrow Express. I had just flown twenty-two hours from Australia to London. My handbag was on my lap. The seat in front of me had a blue fabric cover. The carriage was packed with fellow travelers, some with eyes shut, others yawning, each of us recovering from our flights in different ways. I looked over at the luggage rack, checking whether my red case was still there. It was. I stared up at the small TV screen on the far wall of the carriage. It flickered from the news headlines to a weather update. The forecast for London was a cold, breezy February day. The ticket collector appeared beside me. Good, another distraction. I handed my ticket across, watched him briskly stamp it and then move on to the next passenger. I turned back to the TV. We are now approaching London Paddington, a bright English-accented presenter announced on-screen. Thank you for traveling with Heathrow Express.

I’d arranged to visit Lucas at two p.m., the earliest I thought I’d be able to make my way from Heathrow to his house. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d seen him since the day of the fox liberation, of course. The letter he’d sent with Foxy was also just the first of hundreds—literally hundreds—of letters, faxes and e-mail messages he’d sent me in the years since. From the moment we’d met, without either of us realizing it, Lucas had become the most reliable adult in my life.

Three months after that first visit to London, my mother and father told me they were getting divorced. Irreconcilable differences. I’d had to learn how to say and spell irreconcilable. It was a nasty divorce. They’d fought through their marriage and they fought through their divorce: over the division of their assets, over who got the house and who got me. After legal action that lasted more than a year, Mum won most of it, our small house in East Melbourne and me included. The last time I saw Dad was the day he came to tell me that he’d been offered a job in Canada and had decided to take it.

Eight months after the divorce became final, my mother married again, to a German businessman called Walter she’d met at a garden center. They’d both reached for a large terra-cotta pot at the same time. When she would retell the story in the many magazine articles about her in later years, she would say it was Cupid at work—Walter’s surname was Baum, the German for tree, and they’d met in a garden center! That terra-cotta pot led to coffee and on to a series of secret dates—she’d told me she was going to night classes. I didn’t want to get your hopes up until I knew for sure myself, she said. I hadn’t had any hopes. I was still getting used to Dad being gone, not wishing for a new father.

They had a small wedding. It was my stepfather Walter’s second marriage too, so neither of them wanted a big fuss, they said. Walter came complete with a large bank account, his own stockbroking business, a lot of silver hair, a beard, a big house in Richmond and a son, my instant stepbrother, Charlie. (Full name Charlemagne. Truly.) He was two years older than me, eleven to my nine. Charlie’s mother had gone back to Germany to live after the marriage ended. She wasn’t well, my mother told me. Certainly not well enough to look after Charlie. Mum tapped her head and did a kind of rolling thing with her eyes as she told me. It took me a while to realize she meant Walter’s ex-wife wasn’t well in her head. It was years later before I learned more about her. Neither Charlie nor Walter mentioned her much in the early days.

And so the two of us joined the two of them and we became four. Less than two years later, three weeks after my eleventh birthday, four turned into five, with the arrival of a baby girl called Jessica Eloise Faith Baum.

We’re a proper family now, my mother said. I remember wondering what we’d been before.

She also told me that she was changing my name by deed poll to Baum. It’s too confusing otherwise, she said. And we should all have the same surname.

But I like being Ella Fox, I told her.

You can keep it as a middle name, Mum said. You might as well have some reminder of your father. It’s not as if he goes to much trouble to keep in touch any other way.

She was right, unfortunately. Dad rang only occasionally from Canada. He sent me Christmas presents and birthday cards that mentioned me visiting him in his new home, but the visits never happened. Mum didn’t speak of him at all if she could help it. When she was with her friends, she referred to her first wedding day as the Big Mistake Day. None of their wedding photos were in the house. They’d somehow been left behind when we moved in with Walter and Charlie. So had all the other photos of Dad. If it hadn’t been for Uncle Lucas sending me a replacement set of photos (at my request), I’d have forgotten what my father looked like. Lucas and I had become occasional pen pals since we met that day in London. I liked having a pen pal on the other side of the world, especially one who was related to me.

A month after I turned twelve, it was Lucas who rang with the news that my father had been killed in a lightplane crash in Ontario. He wrote to me afterward. My dear Ella, he said. I know you hadn’t seen your father in some time, and I also know he was sad about that. And I know that you have a new father and indeed a whole new family now and I hope all is well. But if you ever need some advice from your Wily Old Fox of an uncle, please send me a letter or a fax (I have just installed a very smart-looking fax machine) and I’ll get back to you as quickly as I can.

I wonder whether Lucas had any idea what he might have unleashed with that simple, kind note. From that day on, he became my combination agony uncle, imaginary friend and sounding board, all via the wonders of a fax machine.

My stepfather worked from home sometimes, and he had all the basic office equipment in his study. I’d watched him send a fax one day and thought it was the most amazing thing. He noticed my interest and let me send the next one for him, instructing me in his exact, near-perfect English. That was always when Walter and I got on best, when he was teaching me something and I was being obedient in return. Outside of those times, I think we did our best to ignore each other. It was easy enough to do without any feelings being hurt—my mother kept up such a constant stream of chatter and opinions that she papered over any silences or gaps in our relationship. And of course Walter had Charlie to talk to, in English and German, and then baby Jess as well. His real children. Looking back now, I realize it was hard for him too, and for my mum, with not only a new baby, but a new stepchild to get used to. But back then, I just felt lonely and sad a lot of the time. Like that baby fox in Lucas’s office.

Two nights after I got Lucas’s letter, while Mum and Walter were out at a work dinner and Charlie, Jess and I were being babysat by our middle-aged neighbor (who always turned on the TV as soon as my mother and Walter left), I tiptoed into the office and switched on the fax machine.

I decided to copy Lucas’s straight-to-the-point style of communication.

Dear Uncle Lucas,

I need your advise. (Spelling wasn’t my strong point back then.) I don’t feel virry happy. I have a new baby sister but she crys all the time and Mum likes her more than she likes me.

What should I do?

Your neice,

Ella

I carefully keyed in the long fax number Lucas had included with his letter, fed in the paper and watched it go, holding my breath. I sent it a second time just to be sure. And a third time. Five minutes later, I was sitting in Walter’s chair, chewing the end of my ponytail and swinging my legs, when the fax machine began to make a new noise. I watched, wide-eyed, as a piece of paper started to move of its own accord, go through the roller and appear in the tray. I picked it up.

Dear Ella,

She’s a baby. Babies cry. That’s their job. Give her time to grow up and get interesting, then decide if you like her or not. And I’m sure your mum loves you both. That’s her job.

He’d not signed it, but underneath the writing was a little drawing of a fox. A cheeky fox, with a glint in its eye.

I took out a fresh piece of paper from Walter’s stationery drawer.

Thank you. I will wait.

I signed mine with a little drawing of a fox too, except my fox looked more like a skunk. I fed it into the machine and carefully pressed all the numbers again. Off it went. A few minutes later, another whirr of the machine and a new piece of paper appeared.

You’re welcome. Underneath it, another fox. This one was winking.

I took all the faxes into my bedroom and read them once more before I went to sleep, feeling much better. In the morning, I put them away carefully in my treasure box.

The next day after school, Mum called me into the kitchen. You really shouldn’t use Walter’s fax machine without asking, Ella. Before I had a chance to speak, she went on. There’s no need to look so cross. Lucas wasn’t telling tales. He rang to ask permission to send you faxes occasionally. Walter and I have discussed it. As Walter said, he is your only uncle. So as long as you don’t get too carried away, you can fax Lucas now and again and he says he’ll get back to you as soon as he can. But don’t annoy him, will you? He’s a very busy man.

That surprised me. Is he? Doing what? All I could picture Lucas doing in that big London house of his was making a mess.

I don’t know exactly, Ella. Professor-y things.

But what kind of things?

Mum waved her hands in an I can’t even begin to explain motion. Ask him next time you fax him.

So I did. Lucas faxed back the very next day.

Dear Ella,

This week I am busy studying the following subjects:

Political allegiances in postwar Britain

Trends in liberal versus conservative educational policy

The rise in pro-monarchist sentiment between WWI and WWII

I also need to get the plumbing in the downstairs bathroom fixed.

I faxed back. Thank you, Lucas. You are very busy.

As a bee, he said in return. Or a fox. He signed it with that winking fox again.

It was like having a hotline to heaven. I faxed Lucas at least twice weekly and he always faxed me back. Except of course we called it foxing, not faxing. They weren’t long letters. Questions or minor complaints from me, usually. Quick answers or snippets of information from Lucas, or one-liners that he called Astounding Facts of a Fox Nature. Did you know that baby foxes are called kits, cubs or pups? Did you know that a female fox is called a vixen? Did you know that a fox’s tail makes up one-third of its total length?

Occasionally a present would arrive in the post. Not at birthdays or Christmases, but out of the blue. Always something to do with a fox, of course. A T-shirt with a fox on the front. Fox notepaper. A fox brooch once. I either used, lost or grew out of everything, except the fox key ring.

He sent books too. I am a crime aficionado, he said in one note, and you seem like an inquisitive young lady, so I hope you will enjoy this genre too. I did, reading every one that he sent—from Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven, Famous Five and Five Find-Outers series, to Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys, to Agatha Christie’s novels. As I got older, Lucas sent books by Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and Arthur Conan Doyle. An Astounding Fact accompanied every one: Did you know Enid Blyton wrote eight hundred books in just forty years? That Agatha Christie also wrote romances under the name Mary Westmacott? That Raymond Chandler only started writing detective fiction in his mid-forties?

Jess was too young to care then, but Charlie was always curious about my faraway uncle. Not jealous. Even back then, Charlie was the most even-tempered, laid-back person I knew.

Any new facts from the fox? he’d ask.

I’d go to my Lucas folder and read out the latest fax. Charlie was always very impressed.

I didn’t send Lucas any astounding facts in return, but I did send him regular updates on school results or any academic prizes I happened to win.

Your father would be proud of you. I’m proud of you, he’d fax back.

We didn’t meet in person again until I was twenty-two. After finishing an Arts degree, I’d decided to take a gap year. I’d studied English literature; my father was English, I had a British passport—I headed straight for London. When I e-mailed Lucas (we’d progressed from faxes) to tell him I was coming, he insisted I stay with him until I found my feet. He was still in the same house, which was still full of bright but financially impoverished student lodgers, but he was now more than their innkeeper. He’d become their employer, setting up a discreet, high-level pool of personal tutors. It worked in everyone’s favor, he told me. His lodgers always needed extra money. Struggling students always needed extra tuition. Well-off parents were always happy to pay. A win-win-win situation.

I stayed for a month that first time and loved every minute—his house, the tutors, the city, Lucas himself. The following year, I returned and stayed for six weeks. After that, I visited as often as I could. I’d pay my own airfare after saving every cent I could from my new, full-time job in a Melbourne publishing house, supplemented by my evening job as an English tutor. Lucas’s tutors had given me the idea. I steadily rose through the ranks at the publisher, from editorial assistant to copy editor to editor. At the age of twenty-eight, single and restless, I resigned from my job, packed up my flat, said farewell to my friends and family and flew to London yet again. I worked for Lucas as his cook and housekeeper for two months before I found a short-term job as a badly paid editor with a literary magazine in Bath. I still traveled back to London most weekends and stayed in Lucas’s house each time, going to the theater or, more often, staying in and cooking dinner for him and whichever of the tutors happened to be in the house. Which was how, where and when I first met Aidan.

Two years later, on a sunny Canberra afternoon, Lucas was the witness at my registry-office wedding to Aidan Joseph O’Hanlon, originally of Carlow, Ireland, lately of London and now of Australia. Aidan and I had moved to Canberra a year after we met, when he was offered an interpreting and translating position with the trade commission there. He was fluent in French, Italian, Spanish and German. I’d gone freelance, able to work as an editor from anywhere.

It was important to us both that Lucas was at our wedding. He’d brought us together, after all. My mother was vaguely friendly to Lucas, I think. Marriage to Walter had softened her or at least helped her forget how annoyed she’d once been with my dad and, by extension, Lucas. Walter made stilted conversation with him, as Walter tended to do with everyone. Jess pretty much ignored him. Aged eighteen, she was too busy flirting with the young guitarist we’d hired to provide background music at the reception.

Charlie was living in Boston by then, happily married and soon to become a father for the fourth time. Yet he still made the long journey to our wedding, staying for just three days. That meant so much to me.

Aidan and I didn’t go on our honeymoon until Lucas returned to England. We spent the week after our wedding playing tour guide with him, visiting the galleries and museums in Canberra, driving up to Sydney and down to Melbourne. Lucas and I had been close before my wedding. We became even closer afterward. A month after Lucas went home, Aidan and I headed off on our official honeymoon—two weeks in the US, spending several days, of course, with Charlie and his family, including his new baby son. Aidan and Charlie got on so well. They were both clever, gentle men, so I’d hoped and expected it, but I was still relieved.

Back home in Canberra, work and everyday life took over from weddings and travel. I e-mailed Lucas as regularly as ever, about authors I was working with, or asking his advice about points of grammar. I told him about Aidan’s job. Lucas told me he had a full house—six lodgers, the most ever. More clients than he could supply tutors to, as well. I fear for the future of this once great country, but rejoice in my rising bank account, he said.

Less than six months after the wedding, the news that Aidan and I were having a baby unleashed a torrent of one-line Astounding Fact e-mail from him. He continued to send them all the way through my pregnancy. Did you know that the first sense a baby develops is hearing? That a baby is born around the world every three seconds? That a baby is born without kneecaps?

When I e-mailed five hours after the birth (long and painful, both facts immediately forgotten) to tell him we’d decided to call our newborn son (big, healthy, so, so beautiful) Felix Lucas Fox O’Hanlon, I heard nothing back. I was too exhausted and too dizzy with love to mind, I think. Perhaps he was away. Two days later, there was a knock at our Canberra apartment door. Aidan told me the postman could barely carry the parcel inside, it was so huge. It was a five-foot-high toy fox. Thank you, Lucas’s handwritten note said. I am overjoyed for so many reasons.

After that, Lucas started writing to Felix more than me. I pretended to be hurt, but I loved it.

Dear Felix, he would e-mail. How is the sleeping going? Have you been told that Felix is the Latin word for lucky or happy?

Felix wrote back to him too, of course, channeled through me or Aidan. He was very articulate for a baby and very appreciative of the new series of Astounding Facts for Infants.

Dear Lucas,

Yes, I am sleeping and also feeding very well, thank you for asking—I have already put on 800 grams. Thank you also for the link to the Large Hadron Collider Web site. I look forward to seeing it for myself one day.

Love for now from your grandnephew, Felix.

We sent Lucas dozens of photos of Felix. Lucas sent Felix books. Boxes of them. Not just picture books either. He sent Dickens, Tolstoy, Austen, Homer. . . . His goal, he told us, was for Felix to have a complete library of the classics by the time he started school. At the rate the books were arriving, Felix would have had a full library of the classics by the time he started kindergarten. For Felix’s first birthday, Lucas sent him another five-foot-high toy fox. To keep the other fellow company, he said.

A month after that, Lucas surprised us—delighted us—with a spur-of-the-moment visit to Canberra. He stayed for less than a week, too short, but enough time for us to take dozens of photographs of him and Felix together. Serendipitously, his visit coincided with one of Charlie’s trips back to Australia.

I can still picture one afternoon in particular. We were having an informal lunch at our apartment, the balcony doors wide open, the sun streaming in, a light breeze in the air. There in our small living room were my four favorite people in the world—Aidan, Lucas, Charlie and Felix. There was a moment, a beautiful, sweet moment, when I took a photograph with perfect timing: Charlie making a corny joke, Lucas throwing back his head and laughing, Aidan smiling and shaking his head, and there, in Aidan’s arms, Felix, giving his big, gummy, delighted smile and kicking his legs at the same time, as if the smile alone wasn’t enough to signify how much fun he was having. In the photograph, his legs are just a blur. At the time, I remember a feeling, like a dart of something, that felt like light, a warm feeling, a rush of it. I realized afterward it was joy.

After Lucas went home again, the e-mail between him and Felix increased. There were intense discussions about communism versus capitalism and the merits of cricket compared to football. The books kept arriving. Poetry from Byron, Yeats and Wordsworth. The Spot books. The Mr. Men tales. Lucas was no literary snob. Aidan had to put up another bookshelf in Felix’s room. Felix e-mailed Lucas to say thank you and to remark that his bedroom looked more like a library these days.

Wonderful! Lucas e-mailed back. A boy can never have too many books. Wait till you see what I’m sending you for your second birthday. . . .

But then—

When—

Afterward—

After it happened, as soon as Lucas got my message in the middle of his night, he wrote to me. On paper, not by e-mail. It arrived by courier. One line of writing, on thick parchment paper, with the fox drawing on the letterhead.

My dearest Ella, I am devastated for you both. I