By Sandy Wilson

‘They’re from the garden dad. We still plant them just like you used to. Around the edge of the patio. Remember?’

It was unlikely he would. Geoffrey Simms had dementia. Slumped in the care home high-backed chair he gasped, dragged air into his lungs. ‘Your mum …’

‘Mum?’ Jenny was six years old when she left. Ran off with another man they said. The fragile fragrance of the sweet peas must have triggered a memory, she thought.

‘Dad, please tell me tell me about my mum.’

‘She’s buried.’

‘Buried? Buried where, Dad?’

‘The patio. I buried her under the patio.’