Rain in the shed

The sky turns from grey to black in about a minute and then it pours: hard, cold, sideways rain, the kind that bounces off the paths. Your shed has no roof worth mentioning.

Next door, a shed door bangs open. Fifteen! In here. Now. Hollis holds the door, waxed jacket over his head.

Inside it's small, dry and warm, smelling of earth and creosote. Seed packets in neat labelled tins, a camping stove, a radio, two folding chairs. He's already lighting the stove. Kettle's on. He doesn't look at you while he finds a second mug, which is chipped and clearly a spare he's never needed before. Won't last long, this. Twenty minutes. He hands you the tea. You're soaked. Gruffly: There's a jumper on that hook. It's clean.

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