I haven’t made up my mind about him yet.’ Jenny hunkered down amongst the troughs of compost lining the walkway along the front of the second tier of the accommodation module. Clear plastic sheeting, attached to the safety rail and stretched up to the overhanging ceiling of the tier above, protected the newly sprouting plants from the occasional drops of salt spray. The sheets flapped and rustled noisily in the breeze like the slack sails of a yacht luffing close to windward. Walter shot a glance over Jenny’s shoulder at several ladies carefully watering the onion sprouts further along the walkway. ‘You know,’ he lowered his voice, ‘he’s been on his own for a long, long time.’ He squatted down beside her. ‘He’s exactly the type, you know? The type you worry about. The type you don’t normally allow to join us.’ ‘Walter,’ she looked up at him, ‘I said I haven’t decided yet.’ He recoiled ever so slightly. He looked wounded. She immediately felt guilty and reached out for his arm.
