‘Doesn’t matter.’

‘Well, I thought you said we had to write things down … I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologize. I’m just impressed how much of it you managed to absorb.’

‘It’s somebody who takes a record of your conversations,’ Joyce had said, from nowhere. She’d been gazing out of the window with the glummest look, and her voice had sounded winded, emptied out. ‘I had one at my hearing, going rat-a-tat on her machine. You probably had one too, mouse.’

‘Joyce is right – there’s always a stenographer in court.’ Mr Mayhood had gazed back at them, a faint appreciation in his smile. ‘Anyway, you did right, taking notes. I’m sorry for the wisecrack.’

Joyce had leaned away again and murmured, ‘Told you,’ following the motion of the traffic as it hurried by.

He couldn’t pinpoint what it was, or when it happened, but he knew that somewhere in the past few months she’d got discouraged. Maybe it was all to do with Mr Hollis and their little quarrel in the field – that old bastard was so blunt with his commands and had no patience for her sense of humour. No one really blamed her for reacting as she’d done, and if the old man felt too mortified to show his face again, he didn’t have enough resilience for the job. But it wouldn’t be like Joyce to stew for ages over someone she’d insulted; wasting sympathy on gruff old men who barked at her all day was not her way. So maybe it was something Mr Mayhood had instructed her to do – the endless drawing of the greenhouse till it met his expectations, which she’d only just completed, after weeks of bungling the job. It couldn’t have been Florence – she’d been kind and understanding from their first day in the house together, always making efforts to ensure that Joyce was praised when she deserved to be. Which just left him.

Was there anything he’d said or done to put her in this frame of mind? It was impossible to tell. With Joyce, a slight discouragement was like the slowest puncture to the heart, letting all the motivation out of her. He’d seen it time and time again. One scolding from a teacher and she’d stop attending school. One unthinking comment on her hairdo over breakfast and they’d find her at the bathroom mirror with the scissors. And, of course, there was that episode when he was twelve, when she’d brought home the lawnmower – things had never been the same between them since, not really. A splinter of mistrust had lingered after that and it was still embedded in him.

That broken mower had been waiting on their aunty’s patio one Thursday afternoon when he’d got home from school. A tired old machine with all the green paint flaking off its hood and particles of grass stuck to its innards. ‘Now you’ve something else to pull apart and tinker with,’ she’d told him, seeing his bewilderment. ‘Just watch your fingers on the blades – they’re not as dull as they might look.’ She had more heart than sense, his sister, and she hadn’t meant to tangle herself up in trouble. All because she’d watched him stripping down his little traction engine toy so often in his room, filling it back up with kerosene so it would chug around the carpet – he’d taught himself to disassemble it and put it back together, telling anyone who’d listen of his plans to be an engineer or an inventor. She must’ve reasoned that a shabby mower would help him to achieve his dreams. He hadn’t thought to ask where it had come from, only thanked her, kissed her cheek. She’d told him, ‘Listen, if you clean it up and make it go again, you might start mowing lawns on weekends, earn yourself some money. Get yourself a bit of independence. Start here, in the close, and you’ll have takers everywhere before too long.’