Tiger laid down the double five and crumpled up the empty packet of nuts.

‘Chips.’

‘Jammy devil,’ said Gary.

‘Another one, gentlemen?’ asked Christopher.

‘Nah,’ said Gary. ‘I think I’ll be off. All this talk about age has worn me out. And I’ve someone to meet tomorrow. Someone younger than I am. Considerably younger, who thinks that I’m pretty hot actually.’

‘Lucky you,’ said Tiger.

‘Yes, I am really, aren’t I?’ Gary grinned. ‘Dinner at that little restaurant down by the river, then, with any luck, back to my place. Or hers. I’m not fussy.’

‘We know that,’ said Christopher under his breath.

‘Beats being married,’ said Gary.

‘How would you know?’ asked Tiger.

‘Yes, how would you know?’ repeated Christopher, getting up from his seat and avoiding Gary’s eye.

‘Oh, sorry. You know what I mean. Sorry…’

Tucked away down the end of a lane in a sleepy and not particularly fashionable Hampshire village is a small but pleasantly proportioned Queen Anne manor house. The River Itchen runs past the end of its walled garden which is peppered with ancient fruit trees that have romantic-sounding names like ‘Devonshire Quarrenden’ and ‘Beauty of Bath’, and in early summer the air is filled with the fragrance of old-fashioned roses, clove pinks and lavender. Idyllic. Blissful almost.

Christopher Devon was left the house by a wealthy aunt twenty years ago. She knew he was the only one in her family who would appreciate the garden and the fact that it needed new life breathed into it, rather than being allowed to stagnate. He was a doctor. He understood about life. About renewal. And he was a gardener. He enjoyed the respite that tending plants gave him in between tending patients.

Daunted at first, Christopher had soon begun to relish the challenge that the garden presented. At weekends he would battle with brambles and briars and barrow in loads of manure from a nearby farm.

For twenty-six years Kate, his wife, was happy to do her bit of battling, too–with patients who made excessive demands, and with two children who had their own needs and necessities. They grew up all too fast, slipping through their father’s fingers like dry sand. At almost twenty-four the girl went to Africa to do voluntary work, and the boy, a year younger, to the States where he landed a job in publishing–quite a good one.

Ellie was her dad’s girl. The one with the social conscience. Money meant nothing to her; as long as she had something to eat and something clean to wear she was happy. Not for her designer labels and cupboards full of shoes and handbags. A simple soul with a skinny body and long blonde hair, she turned heads in a baggy T-shirt and combats, much to her father’s amusement. Walking down the street with her on his arm he felt a million dollars. Always.