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was based on the feel of the cloth rather than colour. I made most of my clothes myself. I did my best but the finished articles never looked how I hoped; buttons were too large for their holes and pockets fell permanently open. Even now as I pulled on my shirt it took great effort to line up the collar with the back of my neck. I prized a pair of trousers from beneath the shoulders of a heavy coat, pulled them on and hurried downstairs.
    All the ingredients of another day were laid out in the back garden: the pile of bricks, the bag of cement — its mouth stained with dust, the bucket of water lined with nuggets of mortar and the heap of sand, slumped down one side where the spade had made carefully counted inroads. Suppressing a desire to dig my heel into the heap’s fractured north face, I slipped inside the vast shadow that ran down one side of my garden and hurried towards my father. He was standing beside the ladder when I reached him, staring at a brick in the garden wall. I checked his profile. “Everything. . . alright?”
    â€œWhat?” He picked a piece of dried mortar off the wall.
    â€œAre you alright?”
    â€œYes.” He turned. “You’re late. Where’ve you been?”
    â€œI’m sorry. I overslept.”
    â€œDon’t let it happen again, we need all the time we can get”
    The oak tree that straddled the high wall provided a creaking accompaniment to our work . Quercus ilex was my father’s nemesis. Its great thighs had the power to crush a brick, slowly, silently, and nothing could restrain the weight of the branches, chipping and dislodging chunks of brick from the top of the wall with every winter storm. Even its roots conspired to topple the high wall, bulging up from unexpected places like a powerful living jemmy. Two hours passed. Two whole hours holding the ladder, passing up cloths and turning small pieces of dried mortar over in my hands and willing him to stop. “That’s enough,” my father said from the top of the ladder, “let’s take a five minute break.”
    Five minutes was good. Five minutes meant his mood was generous. “I’m just going to wash my hands,” I turned towards the house. But I never reached the kitchen sink. A sound coming from the direction of the hall pulled me towards the front of the house and by the time I reached it the letterbox was open and two fingers were poking through. A letter dropped to the floor. “Wait a moment.” I rushed forward and opened the door.
    The postman was halfway down the path by the time he stopped. Guilty-looking cheeks were replaced by a smile. He half-turned. “Can I help you?”
    â€œYes, I have a letter to give you.” I was almost through the door, intent on explaining the misdirected letter of the previous day, when I noticed the hedge. “Did you do that?”
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œThat hole in the hedge, there. It wasn’t there yesterday. Did you make that?”
    He studied the thick row of shrubs that divided my neighbour’s garden from mine, tilting his head, inspecting it from every angle, as if he had never seen it in his life before. “I didn’t make it, I just use it.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œIt’s a short cut. I like to be first back at the depot. I just forgot to close it up. Looks good on my —”
    â€œA short cut to where?”
    He shifted his bag across his shoulder. “Next door, of course.”
    My throat tightened. “Will you help me close it?”
    He grinned, a wide, carefree smile. “But then you won’t able to nip over and visit your neighbour.”
    â€œI can’t do that.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI hate him.”
    The words were out; I’d never get them back. I became aware of a long look, eyebrows pulling together just below the peak of his cap.
    â€œHate is a strong word,” he said sagely.
    I looked over his shoulder