“They’re nerines, from the Channel Islands.”

“They’re beautiful,” said Kate, fluttering indecisively from one vase to the next, from one delicate sheaf to another, the perfect blossoms poised, spires and whorls and little neat plates of petals. “And those pale green ones, what are they?”

“They’re a new variety, those. Asphodalos orcinus. From Jersey.”

“Pale green flowers, how charming! But I ought to buy some colours, something with colour....” and Kate tried to remember what colour her rooms were, but they were such a mixture, such a haphazard mixture, her decor was so accidental, whereas Evelyn’s was so purposeful, one always knew what to take Evelyn, yellow roses, marigolds, blue irises. Yellow and blue. “I’ll have some of those,” said Kate, “and some of those, and those....” pointing, collecting; but as the bunch gathered, a feeling of slight sorrow came over her for the poor cut blooms, so fragile, so short of life, so delicately nurtured for this one moment, so bravely out-of-season, so extravagantly imported, and she began to look around for something more lasting, something that would not perish in a day, and her eye lit on a tree, a tree in a pot, a green flourishing tree.

“And I’ll have that too,” she said. “What is it?”

“It’s a bay tree. And it’s thirty pounds, I’m afraid,” said the woman, in deprecation.

“Never mind,” said Kate, “I’ll have it, I’ve always wanted a tree. It’ll last, won’t it?”

“If you look after it,” said the woman, “it will outlive you.”

“That’s what I want,” said Kate, “a tree that will outlive me,” and she thought of Mark’s face when she staggered out with a tree in her arms. Would it fit in the car? To be able to buy, on impulse, a tree seemed for an instant the height of happiness, and Mark’s face, when he saw her, was well worth the thirty pounds.

“Mum, what on earth have you done?” he said, winding down his window and staring as she dumped the tree on the pavement.

“I bought a tree,” said Kate. “Will it fit? You put it in while I go back for the flowers.”

It did fit, and Mark, as he set off for home, patted Kate on the knee and said, “Mum, you’re a very silly girl,” but he was pleased with her, she could tell, and he started to whistle as they drove back down the hill, past lighted windows through the gleaming darkness, down towards the grime, the tree nodding and flopping greenly on the back seat, and Kate with her arms full of flowers.