John was listless. He did rouse himself to do the unthinkable, though: He got a boy to help in the garden. "It'll be all right," he said. "It's only old Proctor's boy, Ambrose. He's a quiet lad. It won't be for long. Only till I get the house fixed up."

That, I knew, would take forever.

The boy came. He was taller than John and broader across the shoulders. They stood hands in pockets, the two of them, and discussed the day's work, and then the boy started. He had a measured, patient way of digging; the smooth, constant chime of spade on soil got on my nerves. "Why do we have to have him?" I wanted to know. "He's an outsider just like the others."

But for some reason, the boy wasn't an outsider to John. Perhaps because he came from John's world, the world of men, the world I didn't know.

"He's a good lad," John said time and time again in answer to my questions. "He's a hard worker. He doesn't ask too many questions, and he doesn't talk too much."

"He might not have a tongue, but he's got eyes in his head."

John shrugged and looked away, uneasy.

"I won't always be here," he said eventually. "Things can't go on forever like this." He sketched a vague gesture that took in the house, its inhabitants, the life we led in it. "One day things will have to change."

"Change?"

"You're growing up. It won't be the same, will it? It's one thing, being children, but when you're grown up…" But I was already gone. I didn't want to know what it was he had to say.

Emmeline was in the bedroom, picking sequins off an evening scarf for her treasure box. I sat down beside her. She was too absorbed in her task to look up when I came in. Her plump, tapered fingers picked relentlessly at a sequin until it came away, then dropped it into the box. It was slow work, but then Emmeline had all the time in the world. Her calm face never changed as she bent over the scarf. Lips together. Her gaze at once intent and dreamy. Every so often her eyelids descended, closing off the green irises, then, as soon as they had touched the lower lid, rising again to reveal the green unchanged.

Did I really look like that? I wondered. Oh, I knew what a good match my eyes were to hers in the mirror. And I knew we had the same sideways kink underneath the weight of red hair at the back of our necks. And I knew the impact we could make on the villagers on those rare occasions when we walked arm in arm down The Street in matching dresses. But still, I didn't look like Emmeline, did I? My face could not do that placid concentration. It would be screwed up in frustration. I would be biting my lip, pushing my hair angrily back over my shoulder and out of the way, huffing with impatience. I would not be tranquil like Emmeline. I would bite the sequins off with my teeth.

You won't leave me, will you? I wanted to say. BecauseI won't leave you. We'll stay here forever. Together. Whatever John-the-dig says.

"Why don't we play?"

She continued her silent work as though she hadn't heard me.

"Let's play getting married. You can be the bride. Go on. You can wear… this." I pulled a yellow piece of gauzy stuff from the pile of finery in the corner. "It's like a veil, look." She didn't look up, not even when I tossed it over her head. She just brushed it out of her eyes and carried on picking at her sequin.

And so I turned my attention to her treasure box. Hester's keys were still in there, still shiny, though Emmeline had, so far as one could tell, forgotten their previous keeper. There were bits and pieces of Isabelle 's jewelry, the colored wrappers from the sweets Hester had given her one day, an alarming shard of glass from a broken green bottle, a length of ribbon with a gold edge that used to be mine, given to me by the Missus more years ago than I could remember. Underneath all the other junk there would still be the threads of silver she had worked out of the curtains the day Hester arrived. And half-hidden beneath the jumble of rubies, glass and junk, there was something that didn't seem to belong. Something leather. I put my head on one side to get a better view. Ah! That was why she wanted it! Gold lettering. IA R. What was IA R? Or who was IA R? Tilting my head the other way I caught sight of something else. A tiny lock. And a tiny key. No wonder it was in Emmeline's treasure box. Gold letters and a. key. I should think it was her prize possession. And suddenly it struck me. IAR! Diary!

I reached out a hand.

Quick as a flash-her looks could be deceiving-Emmeline's hand came down like a vise on my wrist and stopped me from touching. Still she didn't look at me. She moved my hand away with a firm movement and brought the lid down on her box.

There were white pressure marks on my wrist where she had held me.

"I'm going to go away," I said experimentally. My voice didn't sound terribly convincing. "I am. And I'm going to leave you here. I'm going to grow up and live on my own."

Then, full of dignified self-pity, I stood up and walked out of the room.

It wasn't until the end of the afternoon that she came to find me on the window seat in the library. I had drawn the curtain to hide me, but she came straight to the place and peered around. I heard her approaching steps, felt the curtain move when she lifted it. Forehead pressed against the glass, I was watching the drops of rain against the windowpane. The wind was making them shiver; they were constantly threatening to set off on one of their zigzag courses where they swallow up every droplet in their path and leave a brief silvery trail behind. She came to me and rested her head against my shoulder. I shrugged her off angrily. Would not turn and speak to her. She took my hand and slipped something onto my finger.

I waited for her to go before I looked. A ring. She had given me a ring.

I twisted the stone inward, to the palm side of my finger, and brought it close to the window. The light brought the stone to life. Green, like the color of my eyes. Green, like the color of Emmeline's eyes. She had given me a ring. I closed my fingers into my palm and made a tight fist with the stone at its heart.

John collected buckets of rainwater and emptied them; he peeled vegetables for the pot; he went to the farm and returned with milk and butter. But after every task, his slowly gathered energy seemed exhausted, and every time I wondered whether he would have the strength to heave his lean frame up from the table to get on with the next thing.

"Shall we go to the topiary garden?" I asked him. "You might show me what to do there." He didn't reply. He hardly heard me, I think. For a few days I left it, then I asked again. And again. And again.

Eventually he went to the shed, where he sharpened the pruning shears with his old smooth rhythm. Then we lifted down the long ladders and carried them out-of-doors. "Like this," he said, reaching to show me the safety catch on the ladder. He extended the ladder against the solid garden wall. I practiced the safety catch a few times, then went up a few feet and down again. "It won't feel so secure when it's resting against yew," he told me. "It's safe enough, if you get it right. You have to get a feel for it."

And then we went to the topiary garden. He led me to a medium-size yew shape that had grown shaggy. I went to rest the ladder against it, but "No, no," he cried. "Too impatient." Three times he walked slowly around the tree. Then he sat down on the ground and lit a cigarette. I sat down and he lit one for me, too. "Never cut into the sun," he told me. And "Don't cut into your own shadow." He drew a few times on his cigarette. "Be wary of clouds. Don't let them skew your line when they blow about. Find something permanent in your line of vision. A roof or a fence. That's your anchor. And never be in a hurry. Three times as long in the looking as in the cutting." He never lifted his eye from the tree all the time he spoke, and neither did I. "You have to have a feeling for the back of the tree while you're trimming the front, and the other way around. And don't just cut with the shears. Use your whole arm. All the way up to your shoulder."