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didn’t ask him to. He brushed past her and she breathed in his scent: sweat, soap, earth, dust. Catching his eye, Paton smiled up at him. He didn’t return the smile, just glanced at her as he passed.
    They walked through the house, Paton leading the way. Tom didn’t seem to notice the simplicity of the decor and in some rooms, the absence of furnishings. It was a large house, old, with the rooms in various stages of disrepair and renovation. She led him out to the garden, and heard him catch his breath sharply. Overgrown ivy and wisteria supported an ancient, weathered pergola and weeds strangled any hint of what was once a garden bed. An old sugar gum in the middle of the yard was in danger of collapse; a branch hung dangerously low over a dilapidated pine picnic table.
    He walked around the garden, scrutinising it closely, stopping to push aside weeds, rock a branch, look under a shrub. Paton sat down on the sagging verandah, some distance away, rubber-thonged feet resting on the broken concrete step.
    ‘As you can see,’ she said brightly, ‘It’s just gotten out of hand. Way beyond me. Thought it was about time to call in the professionals.’
    Tom turned to face her. ‘What do you need done?’
    She touched the frame of her glasses, pushing them up. ‘Well, anything would be an improvement, don’t you think?’
    He turned back to the garden, surveying it again. She stood up and walked toward him as he started talking and pointing.
    ‘How about I trim all that excess growth from your pergola, stop that tree over there from killing someone and re-dig your beds. Fifty bucks an hour. Probably take me a couple of days.’
    ‘See what I mean? About professionals?’ Paton was standing next to him now, flirting. ‘It’s always such a good idea to call one in occasionally. Definitely worth it.’
    Tom looked at her, not quite sure of her tone. He held her gaze briefly, then looked away, uncomfortable.
    ‘I can start now, if you like. I’ll just go get my tools.’
     

- 3 -
    Paton could see Tom clearly from her kitchen window. He had stripped down to his shorts and singlet, faded flannelette work-shirt hanging from a nearby branch. A damp film of sweat sheened on his arms and face. He was concentrating on digging garden beds, muscles straining as he drove the shovel deep into the dusty, uncompromising soil.
    She had never met a man so handsome, earthy and unaware of the effect—the power, almost—of his looks. Tom didn’t respond when she flirted with him and she liked that. As a small child, into her teens and, now as a woman, boys and later, men, fell over themselves to receive her attention. Even with eye-glasses, she didn’t have to do anything, say anything or be anyone. It was an effortless existence. A man not reacting to her was interesting, refreshing. A challenge.
    He stopped work and was sitting on the picnic table, one foot resting on the bench seat, looking around the garden, appraising it, eating a paper wrapped sandwich he had taken from his tool-box.
    Paton placed a pitcher of lemon cordial and two glasses on an old mosaic tray and carried it out to the garden, putting it on the table next to where Tom was sitting. She poured the pale liquid into the glasses, pushed one toward him and leaned on the table.
    ‘Here,’ she said, ‘Help yourself.’
    ‘Thanks,’ he said, drinking down the cordial in one gulp
    ‘Hot work.’ Paton wanted to get him talking. She needed to find out more about him. She poured him another glass of cordial.
    ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Yeah. It is.’
    She tried another approach.
    ‘Is this all you do? Gardening, I mean. Do you do other stuff?’
    Tom stared at the empty glass, then his sandwich, then the garden, before looking back at her.
    ‘What do you want done?’
    ‘Well, all sorts of things,’ She was gushing now, happy to have a way in. ‘I’ve just… sort of…acquired… this place. As you can see, it needs some work. Actually, it needs a lot of