‘Yeah,’ said Thora, ‘I do. She was great. Our choir tried “My Baby Just Cares for Me” a while back but it wasn’t one of our best. We were a little out of our comfort zone.’

‘You’re in a choir?’

‘Don’t laugh. It’s made up of local pharmacists. We call ourselves A Spoonful of Sugar. I didn’t choose the name. We specialise in arrangements on a medical or drug-based theme: ‘White Rabbit’, ‘Lithium’ … It’s pathetic really but we enjoy it, except only a few of us can hold a tune. We sometimes sing at retirement villages. I know, tragic, right.’

‘Not if it’s fun.’

‘I only joined because my ex insisted. The choir was short of mezzo-sopranos and I fitted the bill.’

‘So you can sing?’

‘Nah. Not really. I’m okay in the background.’

She looked at the scent in her hand. ‘It was so nice of you to make this, thank you.’

It was my cue to leave but as I turned to go, Thora cleared her throat and said, ‘I was wondering if you might like to have a coffee, or come over for a drink sometime – if you want. My home’s not far and my son’s usually out.’

‘That would be nice, thanks.’

‘The only thing I’ve got planned during the day this week is the lunchtime protest at the university.’ She saw my blank look. ‘Against closing down the art history department. But I guess you’ll be at work?’

‘No,’ I bluffed, ‘I’ll be there, protesting.’

‘Perfect,’ said Thora. ‘But don’t take it personally if I’m not very chatty. I’ll just be tired.’

The walk back across the park in the late evening light was one of the most peaceful I could recall in months. The sky was streaked in pale rinses of pink and yellow, and to the west towers of cumulus loomed upwards, their rounded shapes flattening into tabletops at their greatest height. The air was warm, and as I walked I could hear the footsteps and jagged breath of joggers catching up to me and overtaking, shambling or running ahead. There were still people outside the glasshouse and this time I wandered over to see what was going on. It was unusually late for the garden to be open, but as I drew nearer I could see a long line that curved around the building. I was nearly at the glasshouse when a youngish man approached and asked me if this was the place to view the corpse flower. Suddenly the queue made sense and I increased my pace, joining the back of the line. How had I not been aware of this? It was such a rare event for this giant to flower, and when it did it would last for only a day or two, all the while emitting a stench of rotting flesh.