In my one flash of gardening inspiration a few years ago, Poppy and I had turned the other field into a wildflower meadow. We’d done it together as a family, clearing the grass and planting the seed. Early signs were encouraging, if a little sparse, but now, three years on, it was well established, and in the summer became a packed riot of clashing colours humming and buzzing with a thriving population of insects and pollinators. The kids absolutely loved it and I found it a source of calm when I took a walk around, just resting against the five-bar gate that separated it from the edge of the garden, surrounded by nature and able to put everything else out of sight and mind.

I’d continued to live in our London flat for over a year following the accident that killed my husband but, instead of getting easier, every day seemed to bring with it another memory of our time together there, constantly ripping open a wound that was already struggling to heal. My brother and his wife had been absolute rocks, visiting and staying with me even when I didn’t want anyone around. They refused to leave me alone for long, which was probably just as well. What I thought I wanted and what I actually needed had been, I realised now, two very different things.

Friends initially had called and sent cards but when they visited, or I forced myself to accept invitations, I could feel their discomfort as strongly as my own. They trod on eggshells, being sure not to mention anything they thought might cause upset. They didn’t know how to ‘be’ with me when all I’d really wanted was some sense of normality, whatever that was. They meant well, but none of us enjoyed the evenings, and I think they were relieved when I began to decline the invitations, and I was certainly relieved when they ceased to ask.

I sat gazing out in the garden. The first hints of early spring were tentatively showing themselves, as crocuses pushed up through the grass, replacing the snowdrops that had burst through earlier in the year. There was something reliable about a garden and nature in general. It was one of the many things that had attracted me to this place, even though I knew I had done a poor job of looking after its beautiful grounds. Whatever else went on in life, trees burst into leaf, daffodils danced in great swathes, snowdrops peeped their nodding heads above the ground to signal the start of it all. Even when your life had been shattered, nature’s cycle continued and, at a time I found it hard to discern comfort in anything, I did find some sort of comfort in that.

2

Having overstuffed ourselves with takeaway, Felix, Poppy and I sprawled on the sofas in the lounge while my brother surfed through streaming channels to try to find a film we all wanted to watch. Poppy and I had already vetoed several versions of a zombie apocalypse and umpteen superhero incarnations. Knowing there were piles of brilliant screenplays sat out there, withering in slush piles while the movie industry remade the same old thing, was one of the many reasons I’d declared I didn’t plan to have a TV when I moved in. The look of horror on my brother’s face meant that the decision was soon reversed, and I gave him carte blanche to order whatever he thought was right for the room, after of course specifying I was looking for a television and not a cinema screen.