I knew these were all merely surface things, things I could fix. But my wife felt differently.

I watched as her face fell.

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ I said, before she could speak. ‘Bound to be better in the bedrooms.’

When Kathryn stepped into the room that was to be our bedroom, she started to cry. There was mould all up the wall around the window. A sheet of wallpaper hung down like a strange curtain.

‘It’s not that bad,’ I said. ‘Look at that lovely big window. The light it lets in.’

She sniffed.

‘We’ll get it sorted in no time.’

‘I can’t live here. Look at it.’

‘You’re not seeing it, though; you’ve got to trust me. I can see how it will look – when I’ve finished.’

‘I can’t live here, Howard.’

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Wait here a minute.’

I’d had a feeling that she’d react like this, so I’d bought her a little gift, in preparation. I fetched it from the car and ran back up the stairs to her.

‘What’s that?’

‘I thought you could help me plant it. In our new garden.’

She looked at the gnarled stump of a rose that I’d placed in her hands, and was silent.

‘It’s for you, Kathryn.’

She put the tub down and embraced me, her arms tight around my shoulders.

‘Thank you, Howard,’ she said, but I felt the wetness of her tears on my neck.

I didn’t stop Kathryn working at the library, even though Mum mentioned it every time we went there. ‘And you’re still working at the library?’ she’d ask as she poured the tea or handed round the biscuits. ‘Yes,’ Kathryn would reply, with a look at me.

‘Full time?’ Mum would add, and I’d have to say, ‘Mum, you know Kathryn’s full time,’ and attempt to change the subject. On bad days, Mum wouldn’t let the subject change, and she’d quiz Kathryn on how she had the time to prepare my dinner and keep the house clean. Then Kathryn would be silent with me on the walk home, and I’d have to go out in the garden and stay there, whatever the weather, until she called me in or came out and put her hand on my shoulder, which was the signal that I was forgiven. Then I’d lead her round the flower beds and show her what I’d planted, and what was doing well, and she’d listen to it all, nodding and smiling, and usually she’d spot a weed.

‘You’ve missed a bit,’ she’d say, pointing and laughing.

Sometimes when I was out there she’d bring me a cup of tea. ‘You never drink enough,’ she’d say, handing me the cup and saucer, her eyes squinting against the sun, and then I’d want to call Mum round to the house immediately, to show her what a good wife Kathryn was.

One Saturday she came home from her morning’s work at the library with a packet of seeds she’d bought in Woolworths.