He showered and changed into his gardening clothes–jeans and an ancient fleece–then wandered outside, down the flagstone path that led to the greenhouse. He turned the key in the lock, opened the door and inhaled. That aroma of leaf and flower, of compost and dampness always gave him a moment of pleasure. The first lungful of growth-laden air was every bit as uplifting as the first mouthful of champagne and, the doctor told himself, less damaging for the liver.

He picked up the long-spouted watering can and moved among the plants, feeling the compost in their pots and dispensing liquid refreshment where it was needed. He pulled off a browning leaf here, a faded flower there, murmuring to his charges as he did so.

For the next hour he sorted through them, making a mental note of which plants needed potting on come the warmer weather, and which were really past their sell-by date and would be better replaced by new stock.

The cymbidiums were all but over now–only the occasional waxy flower remained on their long and arching stems. In June they would be stood outside, to make room for brighter flowers–the geraniums and fuchsias that blazed their way through the summer. He knew that his tastes were simple. It didn’t bother him. Rarity had never been an attraction.

The frost had melted from the grass now, leaving a dusky grey dew. He left the greenhouse and walked along the side of the house, past borders where daffodils were bursting their buds, and walls festooned with jasmine and japonica, and as he turned the corner he saw two people walking up the path to the front door.

In that split second before being able to identify them it occurred to him that the Jehovah’s Witnesses were getting up earlier nowadays. The feeling that followed was one of relief and delight.

‘Ellie? Matt? What on earth?’

They stood before him on the path, smiling broadly.

‘But you’re in America and you’re…but you’re here!’

Ellie walked up and wrapped her arms around him, laying her head on his chest. ‘Happy birthday Dad.’

Matt hung back for a moment, then came forward and kissed his father softly on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday Pa.’

Christopher stepped back for a moment and surveyed them both. He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry. But why…? I mean, it’s not a special birthday or anything…’

‘Yes it is,’ confirmed Ellie. ‘It’s yours.’

‘I tell you what, Dad,’ said Matt, ‘it’s bloody cold out here. Can we go inside?’

With Christopher’s arms around each of their shoulders they walked up the path to the front door.