The Otto Bin Empire by Judy Nunn Page A

the ornate iron railings of the house’s front fence. She was ten metres or so away, a matronly woman focused upon her task, kneeling on the grass methodically trimming the dead flowers from a plant that took up quite an area of the sizeable garden bed.
    She’d turned and looked over to him where he stood in the street, surprised but not annoyed by the comment, for he’d been polite. In fact, she seemed to be waiting for him to go on.
    â€˜You really should be wearing gloves,’ he’d said.
    â€˜Why?’ she’d asked.
    â€˜Because the latex from the Euphorbia is toxic,’ he’d explained. ‘That white sap on your hands,’ she’d obediently looked down at the milky fluid on her fingers, ‘if you inadvertently get that in your eyes, you’ll be poisoned. Very painful.’
    That’s all it had taken to initiate conversation about gardening, and conversation had led to casual employment. Mrs Cookson, for that was the woman’s name, had even become a semi-regular client. He called around about once a fortnight these days, and she always had a morning or afternoon’s work for him.
    The conversational tactic as a form of introduction had proved so effective that Clive adopted it as his modus operandi. He always chose women, aware that he made a favourable impression upon them, even in his currently reduced state.
    â€˜Have you tried Epsom salts for your gardenias?’
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’ Seated in her wicker armchair on her front verandah enjoying the mild spring weather, seventy-three-year-old Florence McPherson had looked up from the book she was reading.
    â€˜Epsom salts,’ he’d called once again, ‘have you tried them on your gardenias?’
    â€˜No,’ she’d called back, ‘why on earth should I?’ Florence had been mystified not only by the comment but the appearance of the man who stood on the other side of the low stone wall. He was pleasant enough and quite well spoken, but he was dressed like a vagrant. And Epsom salts? What could he possibly mean?
    â€˜The leaves on your gardenias are turning yellow,’ he’d said, no longer raising his voice. Now that contact had been established there seemed no need. The street – a cul-de-sac in a pleasant, middle-class neighbourhood – was silent, deserted, and they could hear each other perfectly.
    â€˜Yes, they are rather, aren’t they,’ she’d replied, looking down at the gardenias that lined the path to the front gate. She hadn’t noticed their yellowing before. She enjoyed the garden, but the upkeep had always been Cyril’s domain. She didn’t know anything about plants, nor was she particularly interested in finding out.
    â€˜A magnesium deficiency,’ he’d explained. ‘Epsom salts should do the trick. Add it to the soil, one teaspoon to one gallon of water every two to four weeks.’
    â€˜What a good idea,’ she’d said, deciding that she certainly preferred the gardenia leaves green. ‘I’ll tell the boy the next time he comes to mow the lawn.’ Since Cyril’s death the ‘boy’, who was really a young man in his mid-twenties, called in once a month to cut the grass and do the weeding.
    â€˜If you have some Epsom salts in the house,’ Clive had offered, ‘I could do it for you now.’
    She had and he did.
    After that Florence became another of Clive’s semi-regular clients. When there was nothing in the garden demanding attention she would make sure she had some handyman job at the ready. She enjoyed chatting with Clive. He was far more interestingthan the boy who mowed the lawn or the cleaner who visited weekly. He never talked about himself though. They occasionally discussed life in general – current affairs, perhaps politics – but for the most part the topic was books. Florence loved reading and so apparently did Clive Whoever-he-was. She