Mrs. Melsom stood on the doorstep wearing a faded summer dress and a crushed straw hat, holding a Pyrex bowl of raspberries.

“I brought these for your mother,” she said. “She mentioned how much she likes them and ours have done well. We’ve more than we can eat.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Jean, accepting the bowl. “Won’t you come in?”

“Who is it?” came her mother’s fluting voice.

Jean glared at her mother over Mrs. Melsom’s straw-hatted head as she showed the visitor into the front room.

“Look, Mother,” she said, holding out the raspberries for her inspection as though they were an offering to pacify a peevish deity. “Isn’t that kind?”

“They’ll do nicely for tea,” her mother conceded, screwing the cap back on her fountain pen.

She was a fussy eater and liked her little treats. Mrs. Melsom had, perhaps unwittingly, hit on the surest way to gain her approval.

“Hello, Mrs. Swinney,” Mrs. Melsom said in that artificially high, bright voice used to address the hard of hearing or imbeciles. “I see you’re doing your paperwork.”

“I have a mountain of letters to write,” the old lady replied, tapping her notepad.

Jean blinked in surprise. Apart from Dorrie, her mother’s only other regular correspondent was an old friend in Toronto. The protective barrier of ocean between them had saved this from going the way of other relationships.

“The problem is thinking of things to say,” she added, the mask slipping for a moment. “When you don’t do much.”

“Well, I was wondering if I could tempt you out of the house on Saturday,” Mrs. Melsom said, casting a wary glance at Jean. “The Mothers’ Union are doing a strawberry tea at the village hall. The handbell ringers are giving a little concert and there’ll be a swap meet. It should be rather a nice afternoon.” She put her head on one side.

Jean’s mother looked momentarily panicked. “Oh, I think it might be too much for me,” she said.

“Of course it won’t,” Jean exclaimed. “It sounds lovely.”

“We’ll find you a comfy seat—you don’t have to make conversation if you’d rather not.”

Jean couldn’t now remember if she’d briefed Mrs. Melsom about her mother’s social anxieties, or whether this was something that had become apparent during their tea together.

“It’s the walking,” her mother said, shaking her head firmly. “I’m not steady enough.”

“My husband will take us in the Riley,” said Mrs. Melsom. “Door to door.”

“There,” said Jean. “What could be nicer?”

“Well I suppose if you’re coming, too,” said her mother.

This wasn’t the outcome Jean was hoping for.

“The invitation is for you, Mother,” she said, shooting Mrs. Melsom a supplicating glance. “It would be so good for you to get out of the house.”

She hadn’t wanted to use this form of words. Nothing that was presented as being “good for you” was likely to hold much appeal. She almost wondered whether it would be worth enduring a strawberry tea and swap meet just to induct her mother gradually into a new world of extramural activities. But the immediate possibility of a free Saturday was too tempting.