‘What’s this up here, Mrs Martello?’ Jim Weston had asked, jabbing at the plan with his pipe.

‘Please call me Jane, Jim. They’re the ridge tiles, set in mortar.’

‘Hmm.’ He’d replaced his pipe firmly in his mouth.

‘What do you want to go messing about with mortar for?’

‘Jim, we can’t argue about this now. It’s all arranged. It’s bought and paid for. We’ve just got to put it together.’

‘Hmm,’ he’d grunted.

‘We excavate here, just a few feet down…’

‘Just,’ Jim had muttered.

‘Then the footings, here and here, and then the hard core, then the damp-course and the damp proof membrane, then concrete and then the tiled ground floor on top of that. The rest is a matter of just joining it together.’

‘Damp-course?’ Jim had said dubiously.

‘Yes, unfortunately there was a Public Health Act passed back in 1875, so I’m afraid we’re stuck with that.’

Now, at the beginning of the first day of work, Jim looked more like something that was growing in the garden than a man who had come to supervise, or pretend to supervise, work in it. His face had been left outside in all weathers and had attained a complexion like the rear end of a toad. Hair sprouted from his nose and ears like moss on an ancient rock. He really was old now and his job consisted of telling his son and his nephew what to do. Their job consisted of ignoring what he said. I shook hands with them as well.

‘What’s this about you digging?’ Jim asked suspiciously.

‘Only a spadeful. I just said I’d like to dig the first spadeful, if that’s all right. It’s important to me.’