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equest of its occupant than anything else. For it was by far the most practically designed and
comfortable space he had seen in the house so far.
In fact, Sang’s room, unlike that of Rose and Anthony, had not merely a window but a
door granting access to the garden. Davy pushed it open and walked out.
After better than a week without watering, the garden was a sad affair. The plants
drooped. More of them were recognizable than Davy would have guessed – in fact, it reminded him
of a smaller and less productive version of the same plot of land his mother worked back in England.
Surprising too, that the garden would have more vegetables than flowers, but he supposed it
represented Rose Weaver’s attempt to produce at least an occasional basketful of English food.
Perhaps mix a few freshly picked peas in with the tinned ones to make it seem as if the whole lot of
them bore the true taste of home. Whether the attempt was valiant or pathetic, Davy could not say, but
either way the struggle was a doomed one.
The sight of the wilted peas, in fact, especially distressed him, for they were his
favorites and somewhat of a specialty of his beloved mum. She would never have allowed him to
pass a garden in such state without lifting a hand, and now, almost by instinct, he put down his tool kit
and looked about for a well. He found one in the courtyard’s only shaded corner, or at least a small
recess filled with cool water. There didn’t appear to be a bucket – odd that, too – but he stooped
with the dipper and began to systematically carry water from the well to the plants, splashing a bit
here and there.
Hard to say why he felt compelled to keep on with the task, not with the afternoon fading
and half his work still undone. Not to mention the fact the mistress of this garden would never be
returning to tend it. Chances were that no one would be returning to this house at all, which raised the
question of what to do with the bird. Davy sat back on his haunches surveying the scene. The plants
were not numerous, but it would take him quite some time to water the whole batch with a single
dipper. And then his eye fell on a bush in the corner of the plot, the only plant among them that he
could not readily call by name.
Noteworthy perhaps. He would pull the leaves and flowers, take a few of the pods back
to Tom.
And it was just then, just as he pushed from his gardener’s squat to his feet, that he saw
the second surprising thing in the garden: a woman.