‘I know what you mean,’ he replied, his mouth a thin, bitter line.

‘Did someone let you down, Mark?’ she asked gently, sensing his need to get beyond small talk.

For a few moments, he said nothing, looking at the ground. ‘My mother.’

Ginie looked at him thoughtfully, realizing how unusual it was for him to reveal the things that had wounded him. ‘What happened?’

‘She was beautiful and lively, and I think she was simply bored by my father. He was a stockbroker, a conventional sort of person. She left him just before my seventh birthday. . . We never heard from her again. I was an only child – he brought me up on his own.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘When people ask, I usually say she’s dead,’ then he shook his head in wonder, ‘I don’t know why, but I find it easy to talk to you.’

They were following a small stream, banked with blazing hydrangeas. It ran past rhododendrons, camellias and maples to the edge of the Dell. Ginie drew back.

‘This is where I found Jongy,’ she confessed. ‘I haven’t set foot in here since.’

‘We don’t have to if you’re not ready.’

For a few instants, she wavered. Then came to a decision. ‘Let’s get it over with,’ she said, squaring her shoulders. ‘I have to do it sooner or later.’

Mark offered her his arm; she took it and held on tight. It was strange, momentarily, to feel another man’s body pressed against hers, but almost at once, it became familiar and comfortable.

They set off down the narrow path into the trees.

‘It was good of you to put roses by Jessica’s grave,’ said Mark, as they passed it. ‘What a lovely smell they have.’

‘You know, since we planted the bush, my staff hasn’t once mentioned her presence. I suppose they think she’s at rest now.’

Branches met overhead, forming a dense canopy that shut out the sun and cast a strange, greenish light. Monkeys and birds cried out eerily.

Mark began to tell her about the birds in his garden and she realised he was trying to distract her from thoughts of Jongy. ‘My friend, the black-collared barbet, comes most mornings. He brings his mate and they serenade us.’

‘Oh, really?’ She was only half listening.

‘Yes. Their duet is so perfect that if you didn’t know better, you’d think it was one bird. Some imaginative folk hear the words “fine weather” in the call, repeated over and over.’

Ginie smiled. ‘Do you hear it?’

‘I do. The cock says “fine”,’ Ginie jumped as a branch brushed her arm – Mark swept it aside for her, ‘And his mate responds immediately with “weather”, while they bow to each other.’

Ginie squeezed his arm. ‘Oh, I do love your company, Mark. You’ve always been a man after my own heart – idiosyncrasies included.’