That the endless chill, the leaks and draughts would penetrate what remained of the roof, and damp would seep along the ground from the lake. But now that summer was here, she had found that warmer weather brought its own brand of insurgence to her home. It was as if Nature knew that the last Pottisworth had died, that a usurper was in his place, and had decided to reclaim the Spanish House for its own, brick by brick, inch by inch. Bluebells, tulips and hyacinths, their bulbs bunched and replicated, had sprung up, and between the flagstones that surrounded the house weeds revealed themselves briefly as green shoots before towering into unfriendly thistles, rosettes of poisonous ragwort or rampant chickweed. The weeks of rain left mossy outcrops on the rendering, while the hedgerows swelled, woven with brambles and ivy. The grass, a sparse, threadbare carpet, became lush and long, flecked with dandelions and buttercups, obliterating pathways and gravel. A couple of aged fruit trees simply fell over and lay prostrate, a mute accusation of her inability to manage the garden.
