Didn’t leave nobody but the baby.

As quietly as I can, I climb back down the inside of the bush.

‘I know you’re there, Josh.’

Not quietly enough.

I pick up my bag and wait for the door to open, which is does with a violent jerk. Dana’s head is in the opening, her eyes hard, all wall.

‘Were you watching me?’

‘No. Yes. Sorry. I—’

‘Do you get thrills from that kind of thing? Are you one of those perverts who likes watching people?’

‘No. I—’

‘Did Carl send you?’

‘No. But—’

‘But what?’

A blackbird fills the silence from somewhere inside the garden.

‘Are you coming in then, now you’re here?’ The door gives an inch, and Dana steps back.

I creep through, the smell of turned earth sharper down here than it was from up on the wall.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Tidying up. Sorting out the dead leaves, digging in some compost for the spring. I’m late this year, what with … everything. There’s a box in the far corner; rake up all these leaves and put them in there.’

The box is a relatively large bin made of planks of wood hammered to spikes in the ground. It’s behind a bush. When I take the lid off, a warm, sweet-sour steam wafts gently upwards from the rotting leaves already inside. Before long, I have to take my coat off. The work keeps me warm and busy for about twenty minutes, and when I’m finished there isn’t a leaf left on the grass. I enjoy the mindless thoroughness of the job.

Almost without speaking, Dana and I take the lower planks from the leaf bin and she digs out a small pile of rich, deep brown earth. A few worms are coiling and uncoiling on the top of the heap. She fetches a large bucket, which I fill and carry to wherever in the garden she points. We then mix the bucket-soil with the ground-soil until they’re indistinguishable.

Next, she goes to one of the many shrubs and bushes and, using what look like short, curved scissors with long handles, she starts to clip off branches and twigs, checking the length of each section before deciding whether or not to trim it. Wordlessly, I gather the offcuts and put them in the bin with the leaves.

After an hour or so, seemingly convinced of my work ethic or compliance, Dana pulls a vacuum flask from the pocket of her coat which is hanging over an upright spade, pours a stream of brown liquid into the lid, and offers it to me. She has decided, it seems, that the huge, unspoken things between us have grown small enough to let us speak.

‘Do you want some or not?’ she asks when I don’t move.

The hot chocolate is gloriously warm, rich and creamy. I smack my lips and pass the lid back. ‘Thanks. That was brilliant.’