Amy breathed a sigh of relief as they left through her gate, then turned around and let herself back into the house.
Amy had been nervous about getting her train home on Monday after what happened last time, but a glance around the carriage reassured her that no one was even looking in her direction. She’d bought a new tube of glue on Sunday and now the mug was setting underneath a small pile of open cookbooks on a box in her living room. She’d managed to refrain from checking on it that morning. The extra hours would make all the difference; she knew from experience that impatience would only make the recovery process longer.
Her commute seemed to fly by, as it often did when she was distracted, and she hopped off the train and walked back home. She heard voices coming from the new neighbours’ house as she walked past. Raised voices. She hurried her pace, hoping that their shouting wouldn’t be a regular thing. It was bad enough listening to Rachel’s arguments, let alone being assaulted by domestic anger from both sides.
Moving was a stressful time, she decided generously. They’d soon settle down. Smudge wasn’t lurking by her potted plants in the front garden as he usually did, so Amy popped her key straight in the lock and entered her house. She’d restacked the newspapers at the weekend and her hallway felt positively empty as she edged past the bottles. It had been a muggy July day, the kind that often ended in thunder, but the ground floor of her house remained cool as a cave. She paused. It was as she feared; she could still hear the shouting. It was muffled and she couldn’t make out the words (thank goodness) but it wasn’t exactly a relaxing backdrop to her evening either. She found herself hoping that they wouldn’t have the loud make-up sex that Rachel and her husband indulged in. That would be more than she could bear.
It couldn’t have been very nice for Scarlett, listening to the sounds of arguments all day. Amy rested her hand briefly on the robin’s back, then peeled her own blazer off and draped it over a box with the others. She remembered her patient and went to the box it was sitting on to investigate. Very gently, she lifted off the books, one by one, then unfurled the bubble wrap she’d used as a bandage. ‘Excellent,’ she said, lifting the mug. It had a thin and wobbly line running down it, like dry cracked earth, but it was structurally sound once again. She picked up the mug and put it against her face. She felt an exchange of energies: warmth from her cheek heating the mug, and the cold china cooling her in return. The line where she’d mended the break made a little indentation in her own face. A mirrored wrinkle. Amy felt a moment of completeness. She imagined drinking from it, the glorious exchange of fluid. It was time. She went to the kitchen to make tea, taking the mug with her.
It was a shame she had to give it back, she decided. It would be a great new addition to her collection. Even stacked as high as she could reach, her mugs took up most of her countertops, but they were such beautiful colours she didn’t mind at all. It was like having a lovely but fragile rainbow in her kitchen. And it wasn’t as if it was worth cooking anything complicated anyway. At least not just for her.
She glanced out of the window, listening to the bubbly hiss of the kettle.
Then she froze.
She blinked, then looked again.
Although she rarely went out there, Amy loved to admire her back garden through her kitchen window. It was very different to the front, which was well-ordered and full of her beautifully potted plants. The back was a private little nature reserve, untidy but ruggedly beautiful. Not through neglect, she told herself, but through generosity to wildlife. She stored her empty terracotta pots out there, stacked on top of one another like the turrets of a tower. Some of her pots were large – big enough to house a modest olive tree, and others were more petite, just right for herbs such as sage or lavender. A few of the larger ones were on their side, making small caves that Amy imagined the squirrels would enjoy. While each pot had been waiting for its perfect plant, the opportunistic ivy had taken hold, concealing some in a rich green disguise. Even Amy had to admit she’d amassed rather an impressive collection over the years.
Nettles had sprung up, and she’d let them thrive. She was sure she’d read somewhere that they were good for caterpillars, and she did love seeing butterflies fluttering around her space.
But her favourites were the brambles. They’d overtaken about a third of the garden, creating a small prickly forest. Now they were covered in modest white blossoms, but by the end of summer they’d bring forth an abundant crop of blackberries. Amy always resisted the urge to pick them, instead allowing the birds to feast. There was nothing more joyful than watching a family of blackbirds gorging on juicy berries, their yellow beaks stained purple.
But it wasn’t a family of blackbirds in her garden. It was two small boys and one large black cat.
Smudge was sniffing around one of her towers and studiously ignoring Daniel, who was stroking his back, emitting the occasional shriek of delight at the softness of his black fur. Charles, the older child, was busy inserting himself inside a blackberry bush. Already all she could see were the backs of his legs; the rest of him had been swallowed by the bush. He’d probably knock off some of the flowers, thought Amy, and they would
