“Oh no. I wouldn’t leave her when she’s unwell. You two must go. The picnic’s all made and Aunt Edie will be so disappointed if no one turns up.” She looked from Jean to Howard, beaming with pleasure at her sacrifice.

Jean felt a flutter of uncertainty. Was Gretchen really packing her off for a jaunt with her husband?

As if reading her thoughts, Gretchen said, “You can put up with Howard for a day, can’t you, Jean?”

“I’ll try not to bore her to tears,” said Howard humbly.

“And Aunt Edie is tremendous company. You’ll love her.”

“She won’t think it odd—her nephew turning up with some strange woman?” Jean remarked.

“Oh no. She’s a game old bird,” laughed Gretchen.

She continued to wrap packets of sandwiches in greaseproof paper and tuck them into the already full hamper as Howard washed his hands at the sink.

“We surely won’t need all this food now?” said Jean, aghast. “You must keep some of it for yourselves.”

“Well, Margaret certainly won’t be eating anything,” said Gretchen, finally consenting to remove one slice of pie and a tomato from the banquet.

Having satisfied herself as to the sufficiency of the provisions, she fastened the buckles on the basket and began to scurry around collecting together the remaining equipment for the outing. Wooden crates for the apples, picnic blanket, tennis rackets and balls were all soon stowed in the trunk of the Wolseley and they were ready to go. Gretchen seemed quite invigorated by her efforts on their behalf and almost eager to see them off. Either she was relieved to be ducking out of an irksome family duty, which seemed most unlikely given her apparent enthusiasm for the outing, or . . . Jean was at a loss.

Even now, as the car was reversing out of the driveway, Gretchen came running after them, brandishing a wide-brimmed straw sun hat, which she passed through the front window to Jean.

“You’ll need this or you’ll burn,” she panted. “It’s going to be a scorcher.”

As they drove off, at Howard’s usual sober pace, Jean could see Gretchen’s diminishing figure in the wing mirror, waving goodbye and then turning back to the house, almost with a skip.

Even as an idle daydream, Jean had never dared to imagine an opportunity like this—to be alone with Howard for a whole day, with the complete and cheerful approval of Gretchen. She could hardly believe her good fortune.

It was warm and stuffy in the car, and Howard wound down his window, resting an elbow on the car door.

“Tell me if it’s too breezy for you,” he said, glancing at her hair whipping in the wind.

A silence descended—the not entirely comfortable silence of two shy-ish people who feel bound by politeness to make conversation but can think of nothing brilliant to say.

They proceeded for some miles, lost in their own thoughts, until at last Jean said, “I’m sorry, Howard. I’m very poor company. I’m no good at small talk.”