Magpie by Eve Ainsworth
Smells always make me remember. Whenever I smell freshly cut grass, wet mud or that freshness in the air after rain, I’m taken back to the house we shared with Ross – the big one just outside London, with the long, thin garden and tiny allotment at the end. I loved that old house so much. It was tall and grand, like something from a TV programme. I thought we were lucky to be living in a place with white-painted bricks and a bright red door. Even the hallway was grand, with its black-and-white diamond oor tiles and sweeping staircase.