Morfudd stood and looked around the large, airy room for the plastic carrier bag that she’d put down the evening before. She’d been affected when Buddug had become so upset by the wet weather ruining the roses and had persuaded Matron to let her go down into town in the van with Griff, but only on condition that she came back up in a taxi. Matron was like that; always extracting promises and setting conditions. She’d tried Woolworth and the flower shop by the station, and even ventured into the Bargain Centre in the old Capal Wesla – and to think they were selling pan scourers and German condoms on the very spot where the Parchedig Tomos Talfan Elias had christened both her boys. Feeling downhearted, Morfudd had nipped into the wine store and bought a bottle of Grouse so that her jaunt wouldn’t be completely in vain. But then, on a stall in the market, run by an Indian woman with a spot of paint on her forehead and wearing jeans under her sari, she’d found what she’d been looking for. After her adventure in town, she’d feigned an overwhelming fatigue for the remainder of the day and closed herself in her room, leaving Alwena and Buddug to their soaps and their knitting. She’d ruined her nail scissors during the afternoon trimming a good foot off each of the stiff, plastic stems and cutting three-inch lengths from the roll of green garden wire. She spied the carrier bag nuzzled against the vitrine and with a sharp intake of breath she set about her little spot of gardening.

After placing the stupidly grimacing gnome from beside the pot of geraniums against the open front door so as not to lock herself out, Morfudd Jones set off across the lawn. The grass was soggy and it squelched between her gnarled toes. For a fleeting moment she wondered what the casual observer of her early morning expedition might conclude. Hesitating, she considered the wisdom of retracing her steps and changing from her nightdress, but then concluded that she should press on to the rose bed and get on with the job. On the stems that George, the handy man, had already dead-headed, Morfudd attached the short-stalked buds and blooms, pricking her fingers, hands and forearms as she bound the green garden wire tightly around the overlapping ends. Fixing the roses took much longer than she’d anticipated but no one interrupted her and she was back in her room by five to six.