The radiators were still on when we arrived home. No doubt this had accelerated the rate of decay. They lay, huddled and slumped on the table, skin shrivelled and flesh blackened by neglect. My father wept like a child. My mother, that most stoic of women, dropped her suitcase and set about cleaning away the debris.
The compost was an insufficient resting place. The husks would never mulch. Instead they would sit forlornly at the end of the garden, surrounded by potato peelings and grass clippings, reminding us of our carelessness.
There would be no bananas for breakfast that morning.