Summer was only a few weeks away. It was starting to get warm, and the sun, more often than the rain, beat down upon his back as he worked the earth.
There were flowers: the seeds of autumn and winter had burst into spectacular bloom in neat rows and among tastefully arranged bushes. Colour: colour was everywhere.
He straightened up; wiped his hands on his trousers; stretched up and back and rolled his shoulders. He was knelt before a rose bush – open buds of pale pink parted to drink up the sun and entice the wandering bees – with his pruners, trowel and garden wire beside him.
“They’re coming on well.”
It was the voice, he knew, of the lady of the house. He knew it well enough not to start, not to scramble to his feet and bow, but to shrug nonchalantly and keep his smile to himself.
“You think so?”
“Gorgeous,” she stepped forward and the hem of her skirt and a pair of short, heeled boots appeared beside him. She cupped a rose in her hand. “And such a beautiful colour.”
“They’re the same as last year.”