The sign said the verge had to stay low enough for drivers to see the turn.
Mandla had painted the height mark on the shed door himself: a white line at his knee, measured from the floor. The rule was for this roundabout, this bend, this strip between kerb and drain. It was not a rule for every garden. He knew how quickly instructions grew legs once they left a shed.
He wheeled the mower down the gravel path and stopped before the bed. The grass had grown over the shallow channel that carried water towards the storm grate. A layer of grit lay in the stems. Rain had pushed it there from the road.
“Cut the whole lot before lunch,” the supervisor had said. “The inspector’s coming tomorrow.”
Mandla set the mower aside and crouched. At ground height the bed was not a strip. It was a series of narrow shelves: gravel, soil, a line of low leaves, then the drain. A broken bottle had been swept against the kerb. He picked it up with the rubbish tongs and dropped it into the bin.
The grass had folded across the channel where the path dipped. He found the opening by following the grit. It ran under the leaves and stopped at a lump of compacted soil. On the other side, the drain was clear.
Mandla took a hand fork from his bucket and teased the soil apart. A little water stood in the hollow, reflecting the underside of the leaves. He eased the channel open, one forkful at a time, until the water slipped forward and darkened the gravel beside the drain.
The mower could have cleared everything in one pass. It would also have thrown the loosened soil over the kerb. He set the blade high and cut only the grass that lay across the channel. The low plants remained. So did a thin green seam between the gravel and the road.
At noon the supervisor returned. “You’ve left a patch.”
“The drain was blocked.”
“And now?”
Mandla pointed to the clean mouth of the channel. The supervisor leaned down, then straightened and looked towards the turn. From there the plants disappeared below the kerb.
“The inspector comes tomorrow,” he said. “If that looks like a missed cut, I’ll need you back after your shift.”
“It was blocked.”
“Show me it runs.”
Mandla pushed the mower back to the shed. The green seam was no taller than his boot. He left the rake beside the drain, where he could reach it before the rain.
That evening, rain came in a narrow sheet along the road. It reached the bed, found the channel, and ran under the leaves without carrying the gravel onto the tar. Mandla watched from the gate until the last of it slipped through the grate. Before first light, he would be back to show the inspector where the water went.
The turn stayed visible. The little garden stayed low.
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