‘Yes. Not my doing, though. It was Frank’s hobby. I can’t bend, you see, so I pay someone to tidy up now. I like to keep it nice – Frank was so proud of his garden.’

Pensively, she gazed at the profusion of pinks, reds, whites and mauves, each flower and shrub labelled meticulously.

‘I love sitting in our summer house. Frank built it himself, you know. It’s where I feel closest to him. We’d take tea there in summer and sit until sundown, just looking out at all the flowers.’ She paused, lost in the memory.

‘Frank always used to say you’re closest to God in a garden,’ she almost whispered.

*

Our day had been exhausting but ultimately rewarding. After a dinner of takeaway pizza, which meant a six-mile round trip for Jack, as the sun started to wane, we sat admiring the fruits of our labour through the open French doors. The living room was bathed in a pool of rosy light, the heat of the afternoon having given way to a beautifully temperate evening. The sky was streaked pink, and a soft, warm breeze wafted through the house. There was still a long way to go, but everything now looked tidy, at least. The weeds had been cleared, the soil dug over, the lawn trimmed. I pictured the borders filled with roses in bloom, hazy purple lavender; maybe a flowering cherry, a bubbling water feature. It might not be able to compete with Mrs Barley’s showpiece yet, but it was a start.

Jack went to make a pot of tea while I sat, daydreaming, Jobie at my feet. A sudden movement at the bottom of Mrs Barley’s garden made me shift my gaze. Startled, I realised that a tall, dark-haired man had walked through the back gate. He wore muddy working boots, and braces over a white collarless shirt, its sleeves rolled up. He strolled slowly up the path and paused, his head bent as though carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. I jumped to my feet and ran to the window. He didn’t appear to have noticed me; he seemed to be lost in thought, staring down at the ground where our fence met our neighbour’s. I felt a peculiar sensation, like an electric current passing through me. There was something inexplicably unnerving about him: his plodding, deliberate gait; his sombre demeanour.

‘Jack! There’s a bloke in Mrs Barley’s garden.’

‘What did you say? I can’t hear you above the kettle.’ He appeared in the doorway, tea towel in hand.

‘A man – in next door’s garden. Look.’

I waved frantically, turning back to the window, but the intruder had vanished. Jack darted outside through the French doors. Followed by an excitable Jobie, he hurried down to the bottom of the garden and out into the entry, looking from left to right. He turned back to me and shrugged.