Nat was also curious about the abundant garden at 11 Camellia Lane. The heat wave had resulted in a local ban on watering, and yet his grandparents’ grass was a lush, almost neon green. The neighboring lawns on Camellia Lane were brown and shriveled like tobacco. Surely his grandparents weren’t flouting the restrictions?

When Nat questioned Mick on the greenness of their lawns, Mick just winked, tapped the side of his nose, and said, “Ask me no questions, and I won’t tell you no lies.”

It hadn’t been the most helpful answer.

Nat dragged his thoughts back to the present. He gave Woody a final brush and went off in search of his grandfather.

The orchard appeared deserted except for Mick’s increasingly unreliable and eccentric lawnmower, but there was no sign of its owner. Then Nat saw him coming out of the shed with a small bottle full of bright green liquid. He was stripped to the waist, apart from his suspenders and a red neckerchief to stop his neck from burning, his eight earrings dancing in the sun. He seemed oblivious to Nat’s presence.

Nat watched as Mick sprinkled a few drops on the beautiful green lawn. The liquid behaved in an extraordinary way: It hovered above the ground and dipped and jived for a few moments before being absorbed into separate blades of grass, which appeared to fold over the liquid and soak up any trace.

“What’s that, Granddad?” Nat shouted, making Mick jump about three feet in the air.

“Good Gawd above, lad, I didn’t know you were there!” Mick spluttered. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

Nat was hurt. “Sorry. I just wondered what it was. It makes our grass a lot nicer than everyone else’s.”

“Ar,” agreed Mick, shoving the cork back into the bottle. “That information is only available on a strictly need-to-know basis,” he said, and tapped the side of his nose again. Then he made Nat mow the lawn, as he said his heart rate had been shaken off course by Nat making him jump like that. By the time Nat had finished and cleaned the lawnmower well enough to satisfy Mick’s high standards, the sun was disappearing into the horizon, and Nat was dying for a cold drink.

A peachy glow flooded the back garden. The adults sat outside enjoying a glass or two of Apple’s organic cider.

“There you go, boy,” beamed Mick, handing him a small amount in a teacup. “That’ll put hairs on your chest.”

Nat put his lips to the rim, trying not to gasp as the fumes hit his senses, his eyes watering, his nostrils contracting with the smell. He took a minuscule sip.

“Mmmm,” he said politely, feeling the liquid blaze painfully down his gullet. Suddenly he clawed at his throat and fell onto the grass, groaning and twitching. Apple and Jude watched in alarm.