“How busy you are,” said Kate in her apron. “I’ve left myself nothing to do.”

“Go and read a book,” said Reuben.

“Read a book? How do you expect me to concentrate on a book at a moment like this? There must be something else I ought to be doing. What else do you need for a party?”

“Go and arrange the flowers,” said Ruth. “That’s what people are supposed to do before parties.” Ruth was doing Mrs. Dalloway for A level.

“Do they really? I haven’t got any flowers. Shall I go and buy some?”

The notion, once acquired, appealed to Kate immensely. Flowers, that would be the thing. Why not? Ruth was right, other people had flowers, why on earth shouldn’t she have some too? She took off her apron, and was just trying to work out where the nearest florist’s was to be found when Mark arrived, back from Waterford, and distracted her with greetings, embraces, birthday kisses, and the usual fuss of a returning son. Mark, it appeared, had not only won a prize and passed his driving test, he had also acquired with his prize money a car, bought from a friend cheap, and the whole family was summoned to stare at it as it stood in the road.

“I’ll take you for a drive, Mum,” said Mark.

“Yes, take her away,” said Ruth, “she’s getting under our feet.”

“You’re very eager to get rid of me,” said Kate.

“Yes, we are,” said Ruth. And they laughed at her, and patted her on the head, as children do when they have grown taller than their mother.

Kate consented to be driven to what she described as the posh florist in Highgate, but was overcome with hesitation when Mark politely held open the car door for her. It was years since she had driven herself, and had humbly acknowledged herself to be the worst driver in London: a near miss of a marmalade cat had put her off for life. And Stuart had never learned at all. Could Mark really have escaped his heritage?

“I say, Mark, can you really drive?” she asked, half in, half out.

“I passed my test,” said Mark.

“So did I,” said Kate, “and I know how little that meant.”

“Come on, hop in,” said Mark.

And she got in, and sat herself down, and put on her seat belt. And as Mark sat down beside her and switched on the ignition, a most extraordinarily powerful wave of fear, love, and admiration poured through her: what an adventure this was, how astonishing, how impossible to have a son so old, so clever, so capable, so large! With what passion for so many years she had loved him, and he had survived her love, he was a proper whole person, who went away and led his own life, and came back with skills and possessions, to take her to the florist! It seemed extraordinarily unreal, an event in a dream. Her heart lurched forward as the car moved forward, she stiffened with fear, bracing herself for a crunch, but, astonishingly, impossibly, Mark could, after all, drive, as he had said he could, and off they went, with no trouble at all except for one slight grinding of the gears on Highgate West Hill. “My God,” said Kate, awe-struck, “you can do it, you can really do it.”