Was I allergic to it back then? Why can’t I remember? Or did that come … was it after?

Kalinda (aka ‘Lonely’, her mother) always found the smell unbearable. That much I did know. It reminded her of her childhood home: the Australian Rangelands. I grinned as I remembered the first time she casually mentioned the name of the place she originated from. ‘Rage-lands?’ I’d repeated, struggling to translate her heavy accent. ‘Rage? Rage-lands?’

Orla had burst out laughing. ‘What do you think, Ma?’ She’d grinned. ‘Rage-lands? Is that home? Is that where you come from, Ma?’

Kalinda railed against everything – raged against everything. I’d never met a woman who … who burned, who glowered, who smouldered so …

‘Not a thing there yesterday,’ Mrs Barrow (who had suddenly appeared at my side) cheerfully observed, shattering my brief reverie: ‘Then this morning, stone the crows: all a-flower, they was.’

She sniffed the air. ‘You smell that?’ she asked, suspiciously. ‘The girl’s room was full of it the other day. Kept all the flies at bay, it did. Now it’s here.’

She shook the little can of WD-40 (as if intending to use it to defeat an invisible adversary).

‘Forget-me-nots,’ I mused. ‘And they haven’t been freshly planted. They must’ve been growing here all along, hidden amongst the weeds.’

‘It was cleared yesterday; top to toe. Nothing left – not so much as a scrap of anything,’ Mrs Barrow reiterated. ‘How’s the sting?’ she finished off.

‘Sorry?’ I looked up, frowning.

‘The sting,’ she repeated.

‘Oh.’

I lifted my hand to the back of my neck and felt around, blithely. Dissatisfied by the findings of this first hand, I dropped it and used my other … Uh … Nope. The bite had disappeared. It was gone!

Noticing my bewildered expression, Mrs Barrow shifted around to take a look herself.

‘Gone,’ she intoned, slightly ominous. ‘An’ your face – the nettle stings is all a-faded.’

I put my hand to my cheek.

‘But you got yourself a big smudge of something or other right the way across—’

‘I know,’ I snapped. ‘It was an accident. Permanent marker pen. It won’t—’

‘And see your poor hands!’ Mrs Barrow interrupted, aghast. ‘White as milk they are!’

As she spoke, she took a precautionary step back. ‘Crikey! Mr Barrow won’t like the sound of this one bit,’ she continued. ‘Maybe those Papists and all them filthy Romanies and what-not aren’t nearly so backward as how they seem to us normal folk.’

She took a further step back.

Eventually I murmured, ‘I’m sure there’s got to be a sensible explanation …’

‘Mr Barrow won’t like it one bit,’ Mrs Barrow repeated.

‘Then don’t tell him.’ I smiled, trying to make light of it. I clambered to my feet.

‘Forget-me-nots,’ Mrs Barrow mused. ‘But them’s white-uns …’

‘A common enough strain.’ I shrugged, grabbing the envelope of cash from my bag and heading towards the front door. Mrs Barrow followed.

‘I’m still smelling it,’ she grumbled. ‘Very strong. Like a fancy disinfectant.’