At that moment one of the men struggles through the patio door, the base of an iron bed on his back. I watch him thoughtfully. It’s late February now and, according to Benjamín, the weather will soon break. Sun up no longer guarantees a big blue. Dark clouds form and disappear, occasionally seeping a little rain in defiance of the sun. Rainbows come and go, throwing a yellow misty light over the town. A raw wind flips the hood of my jacket over my head and whips the cottonwood leaves into mini typhoons around our feet. Time is passing. Duval might be high-handed and he’s certainly odd – but maybe round here it’s as he claims. Simple. I need someone who knows the vagaries of this site, and he does. I need workers, and he has them.

‘All right,’ I say slowly. ‘Fine.’

I start towards the boarding house. ‘So will you introduce me to the men?’

‘Not a good idea.’

I stop. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘You won’t remember their names and besides none of them speaks more than a word of English.’

‘How am I supposed to communicate with them then?’

‘You don’t have to. I’ll communicate for you.’

I feel my face flush.

‘And if you’re not around?’

As I said, Mrs Coleman, it’s very simple. You tell me what you need doing and I’ll get the job done for you.’

7

I’m ten miles from the school when the big white Ford Explorer materializes out of nowhere and flashes me to a standstill. What is it with these patrol vehicles? Behind me the road is straight, the edges are flat and I do, I swear, occasionally look in the rear-view mirror – possibly not as often as specified in the highway code book, but enough to notice when there’s a chunk of metal biting my ass. I watch with weary resignation which swiftly turns to disbelief as, with a twiddle of hat and gun holster, Winfred Tennyson advances the fifty yards to my car.

I wind down the window. ‘Look, I really wasn’t going that fast.’

‘My machine says fifty-two, ma’am.’

‘Well, there you go!’ I say triumphantly.

‘Speed limit is forty-five here, ma’am.’

‘Oh, come on.’ I bang the wheel in frustration. ‘Just where is the sign that says that?’

‘Ma’am, may I see your driving licence?’ Then at my heartfelt sigh, he adds, ‘It’s an offence not to carry your licence, Mrs Coleman.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I say irritably, ‘so I’ve heard.’

‘Is this your truck, Mrs Coleman?’

‘Dammit, you know it’s my truck, Winfred. Come on, give me a break, will you? I’m on my way to pick up the kids from school.’