‘Saffy. Saffy . . .’ she mumbles, not looking at me. And then her head shoots up and her eyes sparkle with recognition. ‘Saffy! It’s you. You’ve come to see me. Where have you been?’ Her whole face lights up and I reach out and touch her frail hand. She’s seventy-five but since she was admitted into the home she’s looked much older.

I know I haven’t got long before Gran’s mind slips back in time. It never ceases to amaze me how much she remembers about the past but can’t recall something as recent as what she had for breakfast.

‘I’m pregnant, Granny. I’m going to have a baby,’ I say, unable to keep the joy and fear out of my voice.

‘A baby. A baby. So wonderful. Such a gift.’ She clutches my hands, a little too tightly. ‘You lucky girl. Is . . .’ Her eyes cloud and I can tell she’s having trouble assessing her memories. ‘Is Tim happy?’

‘Tom. And, yes, he’s over the moon.’ Gran had doted on Tom, before the dementia diagnosis. She couldn’t do enough for him whenever she saw him. She used to send him little care packages: a homemade cake, some sloe gin she’d brewed herself, rhubarb she’d grown in the garden because she knew he loved it and I didn’t. ‘You need to feed him up,’ she used to tell me. It was a generation thing, I would remind myself. To keep your man happy. Not that I remembered Gran ever having a man. My granddad died before Mum was even born.

Gran’s face darkens. ‘Victor wasn’t happy. Oh, no, he wasn’t happy at all.’

Victor? I’d never heard her mention a Victor before. She told me my granddad had been called William, not that she ever spoke about him. Even Mum didn’t know much. But I don’t want to interrupt Gran’s flow by asking questions so I stay silent.

‘He wanted to hurt the baby,’ she says, her face crumpling.

‘Well, Tom would never do anything to hurt the baby. Tom is a nice man. You love Tom, remember?’

Her expression changes again. ‘Oh, yes. Tom is lovely. Tom likes his fried breakfasts.’

I smile. Gran always made Tom a full English every time we stayed. ‘That’s right.’

How am I going to bring up the subject of the remains of two dead people in the garden? Should I even bring it up? Maybe it’s best to leave it for now. But then I think of the police who will need to interview her at some point knowing she owned the cottage for so many years, even if she did have tenants. If I’ve already told her about it, it will be less of a shock when the police speak to her.

‘And . . . we love living in Skelton Place,’ I begin tentatively.

Her face clouds over. ‘Skelton Place?’