The house fronts were stucco, and painted in different colours–soft yellow, pale blue, warm cream and even blush pink. Not one of the front gardens had been given over to car parking. Instead, they all retained their low-pillared walls and contained either modern minimalist gardens–yuccas, bamboos and pebbles–traditional cottage-garden plants or tiny squares of lawn surrounded by borders brimming with daffodils.

Number 34 was the gem among them. Christopher cast his eye over the mixture of plants that jostled for position in the small tapestry that was Maria’s front garden. There were Lenten hellebores and miniature narcissi, euphorbias and hardy cyclamen, dwarf irises and lungworts. Variegated ivy scrambled over the low wall, and one or two small trees–as yet unidentifiable in their leafless state–pushed up among the floral carpet through which ran a sinuous river of gravel to allow its owner to get closer to her charges. It was a plantswoman’s garden, put together with skill and good taste, and Christopher was taken aback.

His reverie was broken by the sound of her voice. He looked up to see her standing in the doorway. ‘Don’t look too close. It’s a bit early in the year.’

Christopher raised his hands in amazement. ‘It’s wonderful. I’ve never seen so much crammed into such a small area.’

‘I wonder if it’s a bit busy sometimes.’

‘No. It’s perfect.’ He opened the gate and walked down the path to greet her. ‘I thought it would just be a bit of a rose bed with a few tired old bushes in it.’

She smiled. ‘It was when I came here.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Oh, five years now. I’ve been busy changing it since then.’

Christopher looked round. ‘So where’s the rose bush?’

‘It’s in the back garden. Do you want to come and have a look?’

Maria led him through the house. It was tastefully decorated in palest creams and white. A small cottage, it nevertheless had an open, airy feel to it. On the walls were pencil sketches of human figures. At the windows hung swathes of muslin that filtered the morning light. She took him through to the kitchen at the back of the house–a sleek, modern room with pale wooden work tops and a pair of French doors that looked on to the tiny back garden.

It was a simple creation, centred by a rectangular box-edged bed sliced into four triangles. On the wall at the end, a lion’s head fountain spurted into a lead cistern. There were cones of box and yew at strategic points, and everywhere, the same skilful mixture of plants that had been evident in the front garden.

Christopher shook his head. ‘I had no idea.’

‘What?’ she asked, innocently.