“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.

When they got back, the tree created a small sensation; everyone poured out of the house to greet it, to exclaim, to admire. They carried it into the sitting room, and stood it in the window. Even Hunt admired it, though he did mutter some warning about Kate’s home looking like a second-rate Greek restaurant in Charlotte Street if she wasn’t careful. “That’s exactly the effect I was aiming at,” said Kate, undeterred. More practically, Reuben said he feared the cats might piss in its pot, and pointed out that guests would certainly stub out their cigarettes there unless strictly forbidden to do so. “Never mind,” said Kate, “it has to go in the back garden, really it isn’t supposed to live in the house, but a few days won’t kill it. It’s a hardy tree.”

“Is it time for a drink yet?” asked Hunt. “We should welcome the tree with a drink. With a small libation.”

It wasn’t really time for a drink, it was only half past five, but nevertheless they opened a bottle of party wine, and sat around in amity, chattering of this and that, of which guests would behave badly, of whether or not Joker or the Rastaman would burst into song, and if so, whether each would appreciate the efforts of the other.

“You wait till you see my Rastaman,” said Ruth, “he is the most beautiful man in the whole world, you will love him, Mum.”