Nigella is nestled in the dampest corner of the plot, far from the white heat of sun-soaked walls, out of sight of the quiet girl behind the lilac shades. In the depths of night she breathes the balm of jasmine and in summer days she catches scent of roses down the alley and sweet-peas by the gate. Nigella resides between the wilted heads of geraniums who saw their best days in spring, and upstart poppies whose petticoats are dropping, leaving seed pods to ripen til they burst. Shaded by cypress and screened by dew-heavy lawn, she bobs her pale blue head and watches the world from within her hazy fronds.
The summer is a dream of mottled light and expectations. Wet feet, muddy ankles and lace-fringed skirts fly past her vision, laughter and shouts crowd the air and then disperse ringing into nearby gardens. The fruit flies gather heavy on hastily-netted bushes by the bleached brick wall. Nigella's blue is matched by the sky some days, and by rain on others, but only in the evenings when it falls like a gentle cloud, trickles down the path and drops from the cypress branches. On these evenings the quiet girl peeps from her shutters and if the wind blows the right way Nigella's head is raised to see her, solemn dark brow and deep eyes, gazing out. Nigella only knows the garden but the girl has her sight set on something else entirely, something only she can see.
Days run into one another and the heat extends them. On the eve of every morning there is a fragile stillness which swells the
trees, and the garden breathes carefully, preparing itself for the break and
the light that will suffuse it. In quiet glory branches bearing blossom bend
their boughs, thick with fragrance. Shadows dance over Nigella, a pair in
perfect time, parting and converging like two streams in flood, lovers in a
ritual of mirth. The blue head bobs and the shadows blend into one, overseen
from behind lilac blinds.
