She had glimpsed him more frequently in the last few days as he slipped in among the shadows by the back gate at night with a strained vigour that tensed his shoulders while his movements had the grace in nervousness of an overgrown adolescent. Now he was clearly waiting for Izzie to arrive home from school on the bus ahead of Cecilia and Romy in the car, bending over and coughing. Dora almost ran out of the front door. Wild garlic pulsed through the air, making her breathe through her mouth. She longed for company, she always realised when someone appeared: Katya, a neighbour, above all a granddaughter. She couldn’t think what to say to a young man who seemed so guarded and self-contained. ‘Are you unwell?’ she called through the gate to the yard, where he was cutting logs. ‘A few sniffles,’ he said in a strange high voice, and she wondered whether he was mocking her. He chopped wood with flimsy movements. ‘Are you making a fire in this weather?’ said Dora. ‘I’m freezing my –’ He stopped himself with theatrical exaggeration.
