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self-seeded, but gradually the weeds took over. Plants died and weren’t replaced. Phoebe wasn’t interested. She simply passed through the garden on her way to the studio. It was just a thoroughfare to her and probably a source of unhappy memories.
    I chose a fine, still November day to make a start. We had no near neighbours, so I decided to have a bonfire. I collected fallen twigs and small branches from the wood and carried them back to the piece of waste ground that once hosted Sylvester’s dahlias. Nothing but weeds had grown there for almost forty years. I forked it over and felt cheered as a blank canvas of damp, dark soil emerged. Soon a robin joined me and, keeping a cautious distance, picked over the crumbling soil for worms. I was glad of the company.
    When some ground was cleared, I arranged my kindling to form a sort of wigwam and added some of the driest vegetation. When I struck a match, the dead leaves sizzled and soon a plume of smoke rose straight up into the air. The smell was almost intoxicating and I experienced a sudden craving for sausages. I remembered a Bonfire Night, my father lighting Roman candles and launching rockets from empty beer bottles, while Phoebe handed round charred sausages in rolls. After he’d gone, I was allowed sparklers and a few small fireworks, but there were no more bonfires or al fresco bangers.
    As I tended my bonfire and contemplated my early childhood, I wondered why I spent so much time thinking about something I could hardly remember. Was I trying to fill in the blanks? Or did I ponder my own childhood because I’d never had a child? No childhood had ever superseded mine in importance, so perhaps I remained shackled to mine, even though it seemed distant, strange, almost forgotten.
    I stared, hypnotised, into the crackling flames, looking for answers, but found none.
     
    ~
     
    By the time the agent finally rang to make an appointment for someone to view Garden Lodge, I’d almost forgotten it was on the market. The phone call threw me and I must have sounded off-hand, even a little confused.
    ‘Someone wants to view ?’
    ‘Yes. A Mr Grenville would like to view the property.’
    ‘Is he a serious buyer?’
    ‘I’ve no idea, but we haven’t exactly been inundated with enquiries, have we? He does have a property to sell. In Bristol. I don’t have any more details, I’m afraid.’
    ‘I see. When does he want to come?’
    ‘As soon as it suits you.’
    ‘Well, tomorrow would be okay. I need to have a bit of a tidy up. Indoors and out. It’s the worst time of the year for viewing the garden unfortunately. There’s nothing to see in January.’
    ‘I doubt he’ll be interested in the garden. It will be the cottage and the building plot. It’s a great business opportunity.’
    But the agent was wrong. Mr Grenville wasn’t looking for a business opportunity.
     
    ~
     
    He was punctual. As a damage limitation exercise, I’d settled Phoebe down with a cup of tea and a dvd of Murder, She Wrote . At three o’ clock I opened the door to a tall, shabby-looking young man with muddy shoes and over-long hair. Not my idea of an entrepreneur, though I suppose the hair was a bit Richard Branson. I decided he looked the self-sufficient type and must be in search of a family home with a plot of land. Alternatively, he might be casing the joint to see if we were worth burgling.
    He held up the agency brochure and, as he extended a large hand, his wide smile was reassuring. ‘Mrs Flint? Connor Grenville. I hope I’m not too early?’
    ‘Not at all. Do come in. I’m Ann de Freitas and I’ll be showing you round.’
    ‘Thank you,’ he said, stepping on to the door mat where he scraped his shoes thoroughly. As I shut the door behind him, I realised he wasn’t that young – early thirties maybe, fair, with a high forehead that made him look academic, as did the worn cord trousers and shapeless woollen jumper. Looking at him, I doubted he had the financial resources