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‘mansion.’ Because though the house was unremarkable, the gardens at the back were huge. “It’s just shy of two acres,” boasted Max, and I could well believe it , it seemed to stretch off into the distance, I couldn’t see an end to it. But it wasn’t merely the size that was impressive—on its own, the size was an anomaly, a vast tract of land that had no business attaching itself to a house so small, like tiny Britain owning the whole of India. What struck me was the design of the thing, that it was truly
designed
, there was honest to God method in the placing of all those shrubs and hedges, the garden was laid out before us like a fully composed work of art. Even in the winter, the flowers not yet in bloom and the grass looking somewhat sorry for itself, the sight still took my breath away.
    “I did all the landscaping myself,” said Lisa. “It was a hobby.” We walked on pebbled paths underneath archways of green fern. One day the paths would lead to big beds of flowers. ”I’ve planted three thousand bulbs of grape hyacinth,” Lisa told me, “and, behind that, three thousand of species tulip—so, in the spring, there’ll be this sea of blue crashing on to a shore of yellows, and reds, and greens! You’ll have to come back in the spring.” And every archway opened out to another little garden, different flowers seeded, but placed in ever winding patterns; there was topiary, there was even a faux maze: the design was intricate enough, I could see, but the hedges were still four feet tall, only a little child could have got lost in there.
    And then, through another archway, and Lisa and Max led me to a pond. There was no water in the pond yet, this was still a work in progress. And, standing in the middle of the pond, raised high on a plinth, a statue of an angel—grey, stone, a fountain spout sticking out of its open mouth.
    The wings were furled, somewhat apologetically even, as if the angel wasn’t sure how to use them. Its face was of a young cherub, and I stared at it, trying to identify it—it seemed familiar, and I wondered what painting I’d seen that had inspired it, was it Raphael, maybe, or Michelangelo?
    “It’s Ian,” said Max helpfully. And I had a bit of a shock at that. But now I could see it, of course—the infant hands, body, feet; the strangely fat face; those puffed out cheeks he had always had, now puffed out in anticipation he’d be gushing forth a jet of water.
    “We gave a photograph of him to a sculptor,” said Lisa. “Local man. Charming man. Excellent craftsman. Can you see the detail in that?”
    “This way,” said Max, “it’s like Ian is always here, watching over us.”
    I said I could see the effect they were aiming for. And I couldn’t help it, I actually laughed, just for a moment—I remembered that nasty, sulky godson of mine, and thought how unlikely an angel he would have made. If there’s an afterlife, and I have no reason to believe in one, God wouldn’t have made Ian Wheeler an angel, he wouldn’t have wasted the feathers on him. And I thought too of how, had he lived, he’d be a teenager, or nearly a teenager?—if he were still about by now he’d be even nastier and sulkier. Instead here he was, preserved as a three year old, forever in stone, with wings sprouting from under his armpits.
    I apologized for laughing. “No, no,” said Lisa. “The fountain of remembrance is supposed to make you happy.”
    We went back to the house. Lisa had prepared us a stew. “Only peasant stock, I’m afraid!” she said. The meat was excellent, and I complimented her on it. She told me it was venison. We opened the bottle of wine I had brought, and disposed of it quickly; then Max got up and fetched another bottle that was, I have to admit, rather better.
    After we had eaten we settled ourselves comfortably in the lounge. Max took the armchair, which left me and Lisa rubbing arms together on the sofa. Max smiled, stretched lazily. “I like being