‘No. Not much. She didn’t like to talk about him, said it upset her too much.’ She continues ferreting in the box. ‘She said he’d died before I was born. A heart attack. We never visited any grave.’

I think of the man buried in the garden. For one awful moment I wonder if it could be my granddad. I shake the thought from my mind. That’s ridiculous. I can’t start doubting Gran now. And that book of poetry, the dried rose. They must have been in love once.

‘Did you ever meet any of your dad’s family?’ I ask Mum.

She shakes her head. ‘No. Your gran always said his parents had died young, like her own, and they were both only children.’

‘And you knew nothing else about him?’

Mum looks up from the box and ponders this. ‘Not really. I suppose I gave up asking. She never seemed to want to talk about him.’ She turns back to the box and then gives a shout of joy, making me jump. She’s holding a brown A4 envelope in her hand. ‘There’s photos in here!’

I crawl over to where she’s sitting by the window. ‘Let me see.’

She pulls out a pile in different sizes and starts flicking through them. Most are of Mum in various stages of growing up, in the garden of the house in Bristol, but then she pulls out five or six square ones. ‘Look at these,’ she says, handing them to me. I’m sitting almost on top of her, so eager am I to see the rare photos. They look like they were taken with one of those old Polaroid cameras and are of Mum when she’s really young, no more than two or three years old. Most are of her sitting cross-legged in what looks like the garden here, the cottage just visible in the background. One is of her and a much younger Gran, slimmer than I’ve ever seen her and dressed in flared trousers and a stripy tank top.

‘Oh, my God,’ says Mum, staring at another photo. I peer over her shoulder. It’s of Mum again as a little girl and she’s standing in front of the cottage, the frothy lilac wisteria visible above her. Bent down next to her is a woman I don’t recognize. They aren’t close up, so it’s hard to distinguish features but it’s not Gran. Mum turns to look at me, her brown eyes wide. ‘Who is this woman? Do you think this could be Daphne?’

‘Maybe.’ I take the photo from her and flip it over. On the back are the words Lolly, April 1980. 9 Skelton Place. I frown. ‘Who’s Lolly?’

‘Me,’ says Mum. ‘It’s how I referred to myself. I couldn’t say Lorna, apparently.’

‘I’ve never heard Gran call you that.’