From the kitchen window Molly could see Adam approaching the house. On his face was an expression of profound concentration. He looked at his watch and, apparently nervous that he might be too early, he waited at the gate. He could not see Molly, but he stooped, pretending to tie the lace of his shoe.

Why is it so important for him to get things right? she thought. Does he want to please us specially, or is he nervous before meeting anybody?

He opened the gate, fumbling with the catch which had never properly worked. Molly saw the boy blush and realized that George must be walking towards him from the vegetable garden. She felt the colour come to her own cheeks as she remembered with a vivid pain her own, shy teenage days.

She could not hear what was being said and like a mime the scene unfolded in front of the window. George, a lettuce in one hand, held the other palm upwards to show that it was dirty: an explanation that he could not shake hands. Adam, awkward, not sure how to react to this formality, looked at his feet, twitched the hair from his eyes, then, glad at last of something to do, followed George towards the house. She saw that in one hand he clutched a battered oilskin notebook. As they reached the back door she began to hear their conversation, and the enthusiasm of the words distracted her attention from Adam’s nervous mannerisms. Perhaps, she thought, they have just become a habit, and to watch him without hearing him gives a misleading impression. Or perhaps verbally he is very good at covering up how scared he is of meeting people.

George came into the kitchen and went to the sink with the lettuce, but Adam hovered at the door, looking in uncertainly. At home the kitchen was clinically clean. Mrs. Pargeter, the housekeeper, had insisted on machines to wash, beat and blend, a freezer and a spilt-level cooker. Her kitchen was a workplace, like a laboratory. This was a place to savour, a collage of colour and smell. One wall was covered by wooden shelves. On them were tall jars of bottled fruit, bottles of home-brewed beer, books and dust. On the floor stood pottery jars of flour and sugar, on the walls were pans hanging from nails and rusty ancient pieces of kitchen gadgetry. It was all stacked layer on layer, glass and wood on the stone wall, pot and earthenware against red tile floor, each overlaid by the smell of fruit and spice and cooking food.

“Come on in.” George had noticed the hesitation with surprise. “Molly doesn’t mind us in here, do you?” He put his arm round his wife and squeezed her in a joking, tender way. The show of affection hurt Adam.

“I suppose not, if you sit there out of the way.” She was a short, spry woman and she was laughing at them. She pointed to the far end of the kitchen table, the only end uncluttered. All her movements were vigorous and spontaneous.