Mum could be found in a mist of cooking smells that enveloped us, and infused the walls as soon as you walked in. Or she’d be bent over, head down and heavy - fabric at the ready, feeding the sewing machine.
The oh-so-small, magical garden had enough space for a butterfly to land, a spider to weave its web, ants to crawl through cracks, for a hedgehog to cross the grass. And Mother Bird to throw her chick out of the nest.
What goings-on must we have inherited in our terraced house, before making our own?
Everything finds a home. Letters posted through the letterbox. Litter in the bin. And illness, the greatest intruder of all, always finds a way.
Here, the stairs lead down the narrow corridor, but it’s where music plays loudly and you can dance quietly.