An empty bucket is a bad omen. But when I encounter Liz, she is carrying a bucket full to the brim with dandelions. As we talk she squashes the yellow heads down into the bucket with her hoe and a bitter smell rises; at least, she says, she caught them before the seeds could blow all over the square. I look at the neat paving under our feet, where pink bricks have been set down among the grey.
- It’s a rose, Liz says.