‘Yes, Miss Marry.’ His inability to pronounce the last syllable of her name had a strange, disturbing effect on Miss Marriot.

‘One hand apart.’

‘Yes, Miss Marry.’

‘Marry-yet. Everyone else can say it, Isaiah. Now, about this.’ Isobel Marriot turned away and he followed her down to the bulge. ‘Good gracious me. Just look at that, will you? What were you thinking of when you did that? There’s enough space there for a chrysanthemum. Isn’t there?’

‘Yes…’—she had her eyes on him all the time— ‘Madam.’

‘You’ll have to take them out, Isaiah.’

‘Yes Madam.’

‘All of them.’

‘Yes.’

‘Every one.’

‘Yes.’

She waited. He waited. She played with a necklace of amber stones around her neck, and when she’d finished sighing over the crooked row of seedlings, she looked up and over the fence at a donkey cart passing in the street. Isaiah decided again that the white, powdery smell of Miss Marry was repellent.

‘Every one out, measured properly, and then planted again.’

And her shoes; where did she get those shoes?

‘And remember, one hand.’

Her legs were like broomsticks.

‘Well, get to work you naughty boy.’

Isaiah got down on his knees and the laborious job of replanting every one of the seedlings was begun. He worked determinedly, hoping she would be satisfied and go away. More than anything else, he disliked having her watch him work. He could do nothing or something simple like weeding a garden or planting for hours on end and not notice the time, because of his memories. But with Miss Marriot standing over him, the seconds crawled past like tortoises, while he waited for the next sigh of regret or the sound of her voice in another gentle complaint. Despite his show of diligence and industry, that is what happened now.

‘Gently with the roots, Isaiah. They’re delicate little things, and we don’t want them to die, do we?’ Pause. ‘Do we, Isaiah?’

‘No Madam.’

‘Well, if you do it that way, they will. Oh dear!’

Isaiah wiped the sweat off his forehead. What had he done?

‘There you go and do it again? Here, let me show you.’

This was the worst of all the unpleasant things that could happen when she was around. She was going to show him. She was going to get down on her knees beside him on the earth, and touch his hand with her thin, cold fingers, and show him. It never worked, because he either closed his eyes or turned his head. Once when she had done that Isaiah had accidentally looked down her dress and seen the flat, white breasts with nipples the size of a tickey. Another time she had farted. Since then he’d never liked being in any intimate proximity with her.

‘Are you watching, Isaiah?’

‘Yes Madam.’

‘Now were you doing it this way?’

‘No Madam.’

To an incredible extent a peaceful existence was dependent upon knowing just when to say no or yes to the white man.