Rosie walked as if there was still purpose in her life. She went past the sweet-smelling lilac bush and the spindly raspberry plants, which looked fragile next to the resilient curled leaves and red sticks of rhubarb that had unfurled from the earth.
There was a swirl of doves from a nearby cote crossing the sun in a blue sky. The sweetbay magnolia was covered in creamy white flowers, the undersides of its leaves flashing silver in the breeze.
Rosie should have been thrilled by this stirring of spring life on the allotment. But this time of year was bittersweet, bringing back memories of Mike. She had lost him in the springtime.
One of the hardest things had been opening the door of his shed after he’d died. His gardening tools had been arranged in one corner with the red watering cans. The flowerpots and plant trays were stacked according to size. There were small drawers containing various labelled seed packets, secateurs and tomato ties.
His wellingtons
