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become conscious of the silence and give up.
    So she lies still in the long grass and waits. The idiot eventually stops the hysteria, and his breathing becomes more regular. The roots of the hawthorn are in the shade, but she can see the sun a yard away and smell the heat of it coming closer. She hears the bees, a bird trilling—but she can’t identify it because she’s no good at birds. She’s never bothered about them before, never listened, never given them a thought. So now she finds she’s hearing a silence that is new to her. There’s quietness, calmness. A car drives up the road past the cottage, but she doesn’t mind that. It shows her the extent of her stillness.
    She can’t hear him at all, so she moves her head round to see if he’s gone.
    He’s sitting down close by, unmoving like her, and she realises that they’re sharing the same silence. They’re hearing things together: the crack of the hawthorn as it settles slightly into itself, preparing for the full sun; the crawling of a caterpillar past her arm; the rustle of the grass as it eases upright again, reasserting itself after being disturbed by their feet.
    ‘Well?’ she says at last. ‘Any chance of helping me?’
    He’s unwilling, she can tell, but he moves towards her, and spends a few seconds examining the situation. Then she feels his hand on her leg. She jumps when he first touches her, but the hand stays there. Slowly, gently, he begins to untangle her. She waits and lets him finish. She likes the sensation of his calm hands on her leg.
    He lets go.
    She waits for a second and then tries to move her leg. It’s free, so she rolls over, away from the roots, and struggles to get to her feet.
    He stands up and watches, but seeing her difficulty, leans forward to help. She tries to pull herself up on a branch of the hawthorn, but there are too many thorns, so she grabs his arm instead. He doesn’t react. He is solid and motionless beside her. She holds the foot still at first, then lowers it to the ground and puts some weight on it.
    ‘Ouch!’ She lifts it up again hurriedly.
    The idiot man kneels down. He moves his hand along her foot, pressing as he goes.
    ‘There!’ she shrieks. ‘Ah!’ She tries to jerk it away, but he’s holding it too firmly, and she has to balance herself on his shoulder. ‘Let go!’ But her anger won’t come back. She looks for it and it’s not there any more. ‘I must have twisted my ankle,’ she says, sounding pathetic. ‘Can you help me back to the house?’
    He nods, and they stumble together through the long grass. They would be more successful if he put an arm round her for support, but he’s not offering this service and she’s not asking.
    The ladder is still up against the wall, tools strewn around at the base. He attempts to take her through the front door.
    ‘No,’ she says. ‘There’s no point in going in. It’s all dead. Been like that for years.’
    He helps her to sit down again on the grass and lowers himself next to her. She’s conscious that he’s looking at her. Perhaps he’s dangerous. She is being helped by a man who could be a lunatic. Nobody knows she’s here. She’d be yet another disappeared person, buried under the hawthorn bushes, in the long grass.
    She turns to examine his face, and he doesn’t appear to be dangerous. He doesn’t even seem stupid. There’s a scar on his left cheek, stretching from the corner of his eye, down to the chin, lost in the grey and black grizzle of his beard. His eyes,however, are remarkable. They’re bluer than she’s ever seen in real life. Frank Sinatra, Steve McQueen blue. As soon as she looks directly at him, he averts his gaze, but she’s seen his expression, his intelligence. If he’s a lunatic, he’s a clever one.
    He gets up and starts collecting the tools into a neat pile. She has a very good idea.
    ‘Listen,’ she says, ‘you couldn’t do me a favour, could you? I need to get a tile down from the roof so I can