Through the kitchen window, we saw Gareth. He strode across the garden towards us, his satchel slung over his shoulder, a picnic basket in one hand. Lizzie jumped up to open the door and usher him in.

Gareth nodded at Lizzie and smiled wide. “Lizzie,” he said.

“Gareth,” she replied. Her smile a mirror image.

There were whole sentences behind that greeting that I couldn’t fathom. Gareth put his picnic basket on the kitchen table, and Lizzie bent to the range to remove a flan she had been warming. She placed it in the bottom of the basket and covered it with a cloth. Then she filled a flask with tea and handed it to Gareth along with a small jar of milk.

“Do you have a rug?” she asked him.

“I do,” he said.

She took her wool shawl off the back of a chair. “It might be warm for December, but you’ll still need this over your coat,” she said, handing it to me.

I took it, bemused by the pleasure this picnic was giving Lizzie. “Would you like to join us?” I asked.

She laughed. “Oh, no. Too much to do.”

Gareth lifted the basket off the table. “Shall we go?”

I gave him my hand and he led me out of the kitchen.

We walked to Castle Mill Stream and along the towpath to Walton Bridge.

“Hard to believe winter has started,” Gareth said as he spread the rug and put the flan in the centre. Steam rose.

He smoothed the spot where he wanted me to sit, then took the flask from the basket and poured tea into a mug. He added just the right amount of milk and dropped in one lump of sugar. I cupped my hands around it and sipped. It was just as I liked it. We said nothing.

Gareth finished his tea and poured some more. His hand moved unconsciously to the satchel that lay beside him. When his mug was empty, he took time putting it back in the basket, as if it were made of crystal rather than tin. His hands were shaking, ever so slightly.

When his mug was safely in the basket, he took a deep breath and turned to face me. A smile moved gently across his face. Without looking away, he took my mug and put it less carefully on the grass. Then he held both my hands in his.

He pressed my fingers to his lips, and the warmth of his breath sent a shiver through me. My whole body wanted to be pressed against him, but my mind was content to look over the features of his face; to memorise every line on his forehead, his dark brows and long lashes, blue eyes like a summer sky at dusk. There was grey at his temples, and I longed to see it spread, over years, through the dark mop of his hair.