The mementoes she kept of her brother who died in 1920 - photographs of him in uniform, a postcard showing a picture of a French bar, a silk handkerchief embroidered with '1919 Souvenir de France' in large letters, and - most poignantly of all - his memorial card. Inside she's written 'My brother Harry. Died of wounds.'
(I wonder if the jardiniere stand that cost 16/11 to move in 1926 is the one in the photograph beside Harry?)
The menu from the dining room of the White Star Line's MV Georgic, in 1932...
(Saute of Veal Belle Meuniere and Puree of turnips, anyone?)
And this rather good news/bad news postcard from the British Red Cross, dated 16th August 1940...
'Very many thanks for the bedsocks - we now require 30 000 day socks...'
There's so much else too - ordinary items that somehow seem extraordinary because of the story they tell. The thing I'm going to miss most about my godmother is listening to her stories and raiding her storehouse of memories (as well as her biscuit tin, which was always stocked with the very best Foxes chocolate biscuits) to hear about the past. She couldn't have left me a more valuable legacy than those stories... except perhaps the possibility of new ones I discovered in the tins in the garage.