Applying my eye to the gap above the hinge, I see them start to move away from the shed, Boss pointing out various things as they stroll between the rows. They stop at the patch of sweet corn, ears shivering in the humid air. The Director, in his usual pose, hands behind his back, turns his face up to the sky, and his voice drifts back to me: “I remember days like this from my boyhood. Hot as hell. Some nights it was so hot I slept in the bathtub.”

Again I’m slapped with surprise and my eyes widen. The Director talking so personally – to a Cerel? It’s shocking. Maybe Boss is shocked too.

Standing at attention, the older Cerel’s face is blank. “Sir?”

“The last of the summer days,” says the Director, in a trance. Then he seems to remember Boss. “My childhood summers were spent near the Caucasas region. A big, open country, lightly populated, but quite fertile, I believe. Much of the oil we use in this city comes from that area. Sunflower seed oil. Yet it seems to me that the Caucasas, as a region, is vastly underutilised.” Boss looks relieved when the Director sets off again in the direction of the gherkins. “But tell me, Valerie–” I’ve only just caught the name, and grin. “What would your people think about living in the Caucasas?”

The Director has stopped again, and this time is scrutinising Boss as if he’s an interesting example of a bean or tomato.

“Well, sir, I don’t know–”

“Fresh air, plenty of land, room to spread out,” the Director is saying, his head tilted thoughtfully to one side. “Wouldn’t that sound appealing?”

“Put that way, sir, yes it does indeed.”

“And what else do you think your people might find attractive in such a place, Val?”

“I suppose–” He hesitates, and it’s obvious that Boss is struggling to say the right thing. “Perhaps good houses to live in, and a plentiful supply of food?”

“Ah, yes,” says the Director, looking pleased,“of course. That’s it exactly. The basic necessities of life, in fact.”

The two men continue on, although I can’t make out their conversation any more. Boss is talking and waving his hands around – probably showing off his vegetables. After another few minutes, the Director walks out of the garden and back across the lawn to the terrace of the house.

It’s not long before Boss is heading back to the shed and I jump away from the door, pretending to tidy the potting trays. He comes in sighing and muttering to himself and mopping his forehead with a grimy handkerchief.

“Boy!” he exclaims, hurrying over to the stove.

Neglected, the pot of chicory is boiling over.

* * *