When Marianne arrived, Chappy would hang up his apron and go home. On days when the weather was unsuitable for gardening, he could have stayed and helped through morning teas, but he didn’t want to interact with townspeople. He was a ghost who disappeared in daylight. After the tearoom door had closed at five, he would return and help with the washing down while Oriwia baked and prepared for the next day.

While the last cakes were in the ovens, Oriwia and her husband would sit among the fragrance of spices and essence, drinking tea. She felt a deep contentment at such times. All her dreams had come true. Her husband was home, her daughters and grandchildren were all doing well somewhere in the world, she was running her own little village tearoom where people gathered and gossiped, enjoyed company and exclaimed about what she was able to set before them. She’d taken over the reputation, once held by Harry Krauss, of being the best maker and decorator of special cakes for miles around. Unsigned notes, maligning her husband, his race and his family came into her letterbox from time to time. Oriwia read them, burned them, and told no one.

‘The flowers?’ I asked.

‘I said to your grandfather, “Poor husband, you’re starting everything from scratch.”’

Oriwia was aware that the grounds around the house had been neglected. The house and veggie stall that she and Chappy had built when they were first married was close to the road. In two narrow borders, either side of the front step, Dorothea had planted bulbs and flower cuttings from her own garden, scented, ‘lovely by the door’ – stock, carnations, roses. Freesias creamed out on the tail of winter.

When Oriwia decided to rebuild, she had chosen a site well back from the road where it was quieter and away from dust. For this purpose the old house and stall sites were cleared and some of the fruit trees had to be chopped down. Once the new house was built, she’d thought of gardens – vegetables at the back, flowers in front, for her husband to come home to. ‘Bursts, both sides of the drive, shrubberies and borders, yellow hot pokers, red hot pokers. Don’t know which is hotter – red or yellow. Often wondered about that, of fire, I mean. But it was all in my head. It all went to pot. Poor husband – not even a proper lawn. Nothing but paddock grass out front, humps and bumps.’ Though the remaining fruit trees still bore fruit, the orchard had become overgrown. The paddock had given way to scrub and weeds.

Chappy cleaned up the orchard and manicured the trees. His heart was right in it. He fixed the fences and put a goat in to mow the sheep paddock. Then he asked Oriwia what sort of garden she wanted.

Flowers.

What kind of? Where?

Let it be you, Oriwia told her husband. Let it be you.