A niche beside the doorstep once held a scraper to clean mucky boots, but as long as I could remember we’d called it ‘the begonia niche’.
The key was there, under a bulbous pot of begonias. I picked it up and for a moment, I was just home from school to a house of baking smells and laughter.
It didn’t take me long to find what I wanted – the photograph album, the mantle-piece clock, a few trinkets – parts of my history.
When I left, I slipped the key back under the begonias – so the house clearance people could find it.