“The Director doesn’t like them,” says the man gruffly. “It’s only us Cerels who eat turnips, boy.” Right. I’ll remember that. “What’s your name, then?”

“They call me Leho.”

“You can call me Boss.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Here’s the rules,” he says, “you don’t ever take anything from the garden, I don’t care how hungry you are, otherwise you’re out. Understood?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“And if the Director, or any of his guests, comes out into the garden, you go in the shed, so they don’t have to see you.” The man pauses, seems to soften. “It’s a good place to work,” he adds quietly, “so you don’t want to screw it up.”

“I understand,” I say, as meekly as I can.

“Which way did you come – along the towpath?” I give a nod. “All right, good. There’s a gate down there,” the man points beyond the shed towards the river, “that’s where you’ll come in and out. You’ll only be working in the vegetable garden. There are gardeners who take care of the rest. I don’t want to see you anywhere else on the grounds. Got it?”

“Yes, Boss.”

“All right then,” says the man. “You’ll do. Get a fork from the shed. You can start by turning over the kitchen midden.”

The shed is roomy and very tidy. Beneath the windows, a workbench runs along the wall. Pots and seedling trays are stacked at one end of the bench. Plump sacks underneath. Tools along the left wall, hanging on their painted silhouettes. There is a made-up cot against the far wall. A small wood burner and a few personal items tell me that the man lives in the shed. That will explain why he hasn’t been picked up on the street. But it doesn’t explain why the Director keeps a Cerel in such a cushy position.

The man appears in the doorway behind me.

“You know, I was expecting a Travester boy,” he says thoughtfully. Flushing, I keep quiet, just waiting to see how suspicious he might be. Boss seems about to say something more, then changes his mind. “Don’t let them see you, that’s all.”

In the afternoon, Boss comes up silently as I’m on my knees weeding among the beans, sorely tempted to snaffle one of the juicy green pods but glad now that I haven’t. “You can go now. I don’t suppose you’ll have a clock or a wristwatch, will you?”

“No, Boss.” I’m hot, hungry, tired and blisters have come up on the palms of my hands. I’m looking forward to getting home.

“All right, then come each day at dawn,” says Boss. “Payday’s at the end of the week.”

* * *