She would garden all of the day until she had no thoughts in her but her work. Go in at dusk, surprised once she was indoors at how late it was, because she hadn’t noticed as long as she was outside working. She would eat, run a hot bath, lie in it and scrub the dirt from beneath her fingernails. And when she went to bed and closed her eyes, her head was still full of the things she had done in place of the thoughts, her hands on the soil, the soil itself, the green piles of weeds she had pulled, the forms of roots, the anaemic whiteness of bindweed drawn up endlessly from deep underground.