When her parents died and it came to choosing, her brother chose the shares, the cars and the yacht, the racehorses. She’d wanted space. The villa among the olive trees in Greece, and the house where she’d grown up, this very house with its two acres of planted land between the road and the railway. The chance to be barefoot in a kitchen with children in the garden, running in and running out. Her mother had been too busy for her, too occupied with friends and parties. Eve’s kids would have a normal childhood, though as Eric pointed out, it wasn’t normal at all. Most mothers had a job nowadays; if you wanted normal you had to model it. Well, now she was.

Privately she wonders if Poppy inherited her dyslexia from Eric; he had talked late, and says little still. Her father had liked his silences, finding them restful. The old man had walked with him in the garden each evening, sipping wine, gesturing with his pipe to the wood, the planted slopes, the wildlife pond in the paddock where his donkeys lived. He’d put his arm around the young landscaper’s shoulders, growing expansive with drink. All the same, when Eric asked for Eve’s hand after three short months, her father was cautious. He advised her to wait, but Eric had been what she wanted, she had been quite sure. She’d wanted peace back then, not words; a kind man, a garden, children.

Eric pushes the window open and stares across the meadow to the wood. ‘Those trees need thinning.’

‘Those trees are just fine.’ She tucks her arm into his, resting her head against his shoulder. She loves the soft mass of leaves; the way the branches mesh together blocking out the railway at the back. They cast shadows, making secret places for the children to play. All children should have the chance to escape from their parents, though he doesn’t agree.

‘I’ll take Sorrel to school and drop Ash at playgroup on my way,’ he offers.

‘It’s half-term; there’s no school today and no playgroup.’ She lifts her head from his shoulder. ‘Don’t tell me you forgot.’

He doesn’t reply; he’s not listening. His gaze shifts between the wood and the meadow, working things out. He wants a Japanese garden. A landscape should have shape, according to him, symmetry preferably, a proper sense of order.

She takes her arm from his. ‘You promised you’d look after Sorrel and Ash, remember?’

‘I promised I would if I was here.’ He shakes his head, his mouth turns down, there’s a trace of guilt in his eyes. ‘We’ve just been handed the contract for felling in Crystal Palace provided we do it quickly. I’d happily take both of them, but it would be far too dangerous.’