‘It’s beautiful,’ she said.

‘I’m glad you like it.’ His smile this time was open and true, not defensive or self-deprecating. ‘Hardly anyone else seems to come here.’

‘Did you ever read a book called The Secret Garden? A children’s book?’

He frowned and shook his head. ‘I don’t recall it.’

As they walked onwards she told him the story and he said he was sure he’d have remembered it had he read it. She offered to get it out of the library next time she was there, and he laughed, saying all the lads would tease him for reading a children’s book, and she said he would just have to read it under the covers with a torch like she used to. All their initial awkwardness seemed to disappear.

Another tunnel led into a long rectangular garden, bounded on one side by a tall wall along which had been trained fruit trees. The branches, just coming into blossom, looked as though they were decorated with lace. ‘The trees like the warmth of the wall, so they come out early,’ he said. ‘Those old gardeners knew what they were doing.’

In the centre, either side of a pond, were ranged stone columns supporting a rustic wooden frame covered with a tangle of rose bushes, just coming into leaf. The pond itself was choked with weeds, but even from a distance they could see the surface of the water was disturbed.

‘Look,’ he cried, peering into the water. ‘Tadpoles. And some of them are nearly frogs.’

She approached cautiously, recalling the slimy spawn her brother and his friends used to delight in throwing at each other, and sometimes at her. She remembered, too, trying to memorise a diagram describing the life cycle of the frog for her science exam. As she kneeled beside Vic watching the tiny creatures nibbling at the sides of the pond and struggling to climb onto the lily pads, she began to marvel at these strange and rather wonderful little scraps of life.

At the far end of the pond strutted a seagull, one of those large grey ones that always seemed to gather on the fields after ploughing. Every now and again it would stop and tilt its head, peering greedily at the tiny animals struggling at the edges of the pond. No doubt he would make a feast of any that eventually dared to climb out.

He followed her gaze and seemed to read her thoughts: ‘Plucky little blighters, aren’t they? Only a very few will make it to adulthood. Which is why they have so many in the first place.’ He stood and offered his hand to help her up. It was surprisingly warm and soft. ‘Come on. There’s one last wonder to show you before it gets dark.’

The hinges of the ornate cast-iron gate set in the side of the wall groaned reluctantly as he pushed it wide and they entered a vast walled area with long narrow beds, some filled with weeds but others newly raked and sowed, with labels at each end of the lines. This was more familiar; Kath had helped Pa at his allotment for many years, until she’d grown old enough to refuse. But this space was the size of all the allotments put together, perhaps even more. It was the biggest kitchen garden she’d ever seen.