He nodded over to the magnolia. Its gnarled roots pressed hard against the wall, its scent filled the air; it was enjoying its moment of spring glory. It was my pride and joy. The tree had sold the cottage to me, my heart overruling my head again.
‘It’s doing well.’ he said. ‘I planted that the year I buried her, beneath the vegetable plot.’
He paused, looked down at his feet.
‘I don’t know where that’s gone.'