In fact, the strange and subtle ways in which my mother touched the lives of others means that I rarely feel alone. Dave, the plumber whose wife left him and whose kids survived on frozen additives until my mother stepped in, invites himself round to fix a problem with the water tank after spying a problem with my overflow pipe.
“Get away with yer!” he scoffs when I ask how much I owe him. “After what your mum did for me, you'll be getting free plumbing for the rest of your life, Love! Cuppa tea wouldn't go amiss mind.”
And so Dave becomes the first of our neighbours to ever be invited in for tea, followed by his cocky thirteen-going-on-thirty daughter who I somehow end up agreeing to tutor in science on a Thursday after school. Underneath the make-up, bravado and attitude, I see a girl who is insecure, lacking in confidence and desperately trying to be someone she's not. There is definitely something about her that reminds me of myself, and oddly enough we strike up quite a friendship.
Beryl Lampard is my third guest, after she turns up on my doorstep with my mother's ceramic dish and a clump of knitting that she claims is a tea cosy.
“I made it for your mother, Deary,” she says, “but as I said before, I never had a chance to catch her. There should be a hole in it where the spout goes through, but I forgot to make one, so you might have to cut a hole in it yourself. Or I suppose you could wear it as a hat.”
I almost laugh, but it seems she is quite serious. Standing on my doorstep with her wig on back to front and earrings that don't match, she awaits my response to her suggestion.
“It seems a shame not to use it for its original purpose,” I say, politely. “If you'd like to come in for a cup of tea we could try it out.”
She beams at me and I can't help but stare at her ill-fitting dentures, wondering if it would be too risky to offer her a biscuit.
It is through my conversation with Beryl that I learn Major William Jefferson Reece and I share a common interest in genetics, and so it is that the following week I find myself sitting in his front room surrounded by model tanks and airplanes while he shouts at me from his armchair and waves a newspaper article at me.
“A mouse with five legs! Bloody incredible! I want you to tell me how these scientists do it, young lady, because if there's something out there that can help me grow a new leg I want some of it, I tell you! They gave me this metal one,” he says, banging his leg with a walking stick, “but it's not like having the real thing. What? No, not like a real leg. Now, with a new leg I could ask Beryl Lampard to go to the tea dance with me, what do you think? Don't look so surprised, my girl, there's life in this old dog yet!”
Although Major William Jefferson Reece was disappointed to learn that he cannot be genetically modified to grow a new leg, he did follow my suggestion that he should ask Beryl to go to the tea dance anyway. After all, I told him, a woman who wears her wig back to front is hardly going to notice that he has a limp. It warms my heart when I see them one day, tottering off down the street arm in arm, all done up to the nines, the Major's blazer lapels covered in medals and Beryl in a smart coat wearing what appears to be a tea cosy on her head.
Love also blossoms for Dave the plumber, after he kindly drives me to St Mary's Hospice to see the bench that has been dedicated to my mother. It's made of redwood and sits in the little rose garden there. It's a windy day when we go and all the roses are dead, of course, but I can imagine it in the Summer, full of colour, and I think my mother would have loved it.
“She was such a generous lady, wasn't she Alice?” says Margaret, “Always bringing cakes for the patients. Or lovely biscuits.”
“Or little tarts, Margaret,” says Alice, “don't forget those little tarts she used to bring. They always went down well.”
“The raspberry ones, were they?” pipes up Dave, “With crumbly pastry? They were bloody marvellous, they were. My favourite.”
“They were my favourite, too!” agrees Alice, enthusiastically.
Dave smiles at her and she smiles back, blushing. Their eyes linger on each other just long enough to make Margaret and myself exchange a knowing glance. The next thing I hear they've been on a couple of dates and have decided to enrol on a cookery course together.
“In honour of yer mum!” winks Dave.
It seems that love and friendship are blossoming all over the street. Several more neighbours who were not at the funeral turn up on my doorstep, offering their condolences and sharing their own stories of how my mother fed and watered them, offering them nourishment in times of hardship, skulking off like a thief in the night before they could thank her, never wanting anything in return. Through each other we share information, put people in touch with one another and learn about the previously secret lives of those around us. The quiet little street takes on a new sense of solidarity and community, with people chatting on the pavement, offering each other a helping hand, waving good morning as they pass by. And it is all because of my mother, I think, all because her generosity gave us something in common. It seems incredible that a woman who kept herself so isolated could have engendered such warmth and community spirit.
I am so very, very proud of her.
Ewan comes and goes, sometimes when I am out so that I don't even realise he has been until I notice that the fence has been fixed, or that he has harvested some pumpkins and left them on the back porch. I give him a key to let himself in the backdoor and make a cup of coffee if I am not there, and it makes me smile when one day I return from the supermarket to find a Post-it stuck to a packet of custard creams on which he has scrawled âWhat were you thinking? Chocolate Hob-Nobs next time please.' I take a fresh Post-it and write âOnly when you've eaten all these, greedy guts', before sticking it to the custard creams and placing them back in the cupboard. At the end of the month I leave the money he is owed in an envelope on the kitchen table and am confused to find it still there later that day, even though he has clearly come and gone, leaving a trail of biscuits crumbs in his wake. I turn the envelope over in my hand, thoughtfully, and make a mental note to tell him he is a scatterbrain.
One morning, I find myself watching him through the kitchen window as he rakes up the fallen leaves, gathering them up in his arms and dumping them in a pile on one of the barren vegetable patches. It is a cold, bright day, and he is wearing a tshirt with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck, the light glistening on his hair. His niece is with him, dressed in a pink scarf and jumper, and she is helping, clumsily gathering up leaves and transporting them from one place to another, dropping most of them as she goes. They are chatting and smiling, and I think of all the carefree Autumn days I have ever spent with my mother, toasting marshmallows over a candle, baking hot apple pie, carving out pumpkins for Halloween. I grab a scarf and my mother's old oversized green jumper from a peg by the back door and pulling them on I rush outside to join in, eager to forget the sadness that weighs on my heart and experience being carefree once again.
Digger rushes to greet me, wagging his tail, but the little girl stops what she is doing and looks terrified. The last time she saw me I was telling her off for playing so irresponsibly, ranting about the horrors of tornado damage and ridiculing her pretend wedding arrangements.
“Hello,” I say to her, with a smile, “it's nice to see you again.” My voice sounds formal, as if I'm meeting a business acquaintance. I never have been very at ease with young children. “Do you want some help?” I ask her, trying to look friendly.
She stares at me, scared and resentful. Clearly the scary lady has spoilt the nice morning she was having with uncle Ewan.
“Just grab some leaves,” says Ewan, continuing his work, “and dump them on the pile. I'll sort them into pens later for rotting down to leafmould.”
Pens? Leafmould? I have no idea what he's talking about, but I want to join in and be helpful so I do as I'm told. The little girl, glancing warily at me out of the corner of her eye, goes back to gathering leaves in silence, and I suddenly feel like an unwanted intruder in my own garden.
“What's your name?” I ask the little girl, trying to make conversation.
“Lucy,” she whispers, shyly.
“That's a nice name. I'm Meg. I like the Autumn, don't you? The leaves are so pretty.”
She doesn't respond.
“It's nice of you to help your uncle. Are your mummy and daddy out today?”
She nods solemnly and inches away from me.
“When I was little,” I say, “my mummy used to take me to the woods and we'd look for fairies among the fallen leaves. They love living in piles of leaves because it's warm and no-one can see them. If you're really careful and quiet, sometimes you can lift up a leaf and there will be a fairy sleeping underneath it.”
I crouch down and very carefully lift a golden leaf, pretending to be looking for a fairy. Out of the corner of my eye I can see Lucy looking over, straining to see what might be there.
“There's no such thing as fairies,” she says, suddenly.
“Oh, yes there are.”
“I've never seen one.”
“Really?” I ask, feigning surprise. “I've seen several. Maybe you're not being quiet enough. They fly away at the slightest noise.”
Lucy frowns at me, trying to decide if I'm telling the truth. She glances over her shoulder at Ewan for guidance, but he's busy trying to prise the handle of his rake out of Digger's jaws.
“Oh, there goes one!” I exclaim, pointing into the air. “Did you see it?”
“No,” says Lucy, her eyes darting around, “where?”
“I've lost it,” I say searching the sky. “Oh, there! See, there she is!”
“I can't see her!” says Lucy, suddenly desperate to see the fairy. “Where is she?”
“She just ducked into the pile of leaves!” I say, excitedly.
Lucy and I run over to the leaf pile and stand examining it. Her cheeks are rosy red and her eyes are bright with anticipation and excitement.
“Is there really one in there?” she says.
“Yes, but you must be very quiet,” I whisper to her.
“What's in there?” asks Ewan, appearing beside us with a bent rake, “A frog?”
“No, a fairy,” whispers Lucy, “be quiet or you'll scare her.”
Ewan smiles at me and raises his eyebrows questioningly. In the sunlight I notice the chip in his front tooth and wonder what I ever found so annoying about it. In fact, this imperfection is rather endearing and somehow suits his cheeky smile. I loosen the scarf around my neck, feeling my cheeks getting rather warm.
“Well, you know how to get the fairy to come out, don't you, Luce?” asks Ewan.
Lucy shakes her head and gazes up at him, adoring and intrigued.
“You have to take it by surprise!” he shouts, suddenly grabbing an armful of leaves and throwing them up in the air.
Lucy squeals with shock and excitement, covering her head as the leaves fall down over her, and then she suddenly delves into the pile, grabbing one armful of leaves after the other, throwing them into the air and searching for the fairy. Ewan and I both join her, throwing red and yellow leaves up into the sky, which Digger tries to catch in his snapping jaws as they flutter down around him. Then we are all throwing leaves at each other and laughing, Ewan lobbing fistfuls at Lucy and me with gusto, and the two of us mounting a counter-attack against him as best we can, grabbing at his arms and trying to stuff handfuls of leaves down the neck of his tshirt. Before I know it he has turned on me, and I scream loudly as he pushes me onto the leaf pile where I land and bounce softly, multi-coloured shimmering leaves falling down over me in the bright Autumn sunlight, the sound of Lucy's childish laughter and Digger's barking filling the air.
The first frosts come too soon, reminding me of all the weeks that you have been gone. Those hazy Summer days feel like a lifetime ago now, yet I still feel you with me in all that I do. You are the glowing candle inside the pumpkin I carve out for Halloween and place in the front window, the only one in the street with a huge smile on its face rather than a menacing scowl because you preferred them that way. You are the gloves I wear as I slide my first blackberry pie into the oven, ever cautious that a scalding-hot shelf could give me a nasty burn. You are the warm scarf that I wrap around my neck when I help Ewan in the garden, always aware that a chill Autumn morning could lead me to catch my death of cold. You are the whispering breeze as I pick brussel sprouts, telling me which ones are good and which ones to leave on the stem.
I am everything you ever taught me, even when you thought I wasn't listening.
Working in the garden keeps me busy and makes me feel closer to you. In the past two weeks I have helped to dig over the empty vegetable plots, built a hibernation box for hedgehogs, strung up birdfeeders, pruned the apple trees and planted tulip bulbs ready to flower next Spring. I never knew there was so much to learn. It turns out that gardening really is quite a science.
My back aches constantly, my hands are cracked and sore, but despite the cold and the wet and the pain, I find I am at peace in the garden, working quietly under Ewan's guidance, surrounded by the sound of his humming, the gentle snip of shears, the squeak of the wheelbarrow and the muffled thuds of a spade against hard soil. I look forward to the days when he comes and I can work alongside him.
In fact, they are my favourite days.
Oh, and you would be pleased to know that we have found a good use for our abundant Autumn harvest. After I have taken what I need and distributed some gifts amongst the neighbours â onions for the Major, leeks for Beryl Lampard, swedes for Dave Daly â Ewan takes the surplus in his van and drops it off at an unmarked house in town, the address and location of which are kept secret for a very good reason, but which was disclosed to me in confidence by Dr Bloomberg. It is a hostel for women and their children who are trying to escape domestic abuse. It provides them with somewhere to stay where they can feel physically safe, as well as providing counselling so that they do not have to feel ashamed or isolated, but instead can start to find the strength and confidence to deal with what has happened to them. You always said that a tasty, nutritious dinner was good for the heart as well as the body, so perhaps in our own little way we are helping to heal some broken souls. I like to think so, anyway.