I knew she’d been seduced by the photograph on the packet (people always are): glossy red poppies, a whole field of them.

Now, poppies are not what I’d call a stylish flower. They look lovely in their place – a farmer’s field, at the side of the road – but in a garden they all too often end up looking sad and scraggy, their stems sticky with blight, their flowers over in a jiffy, leaving the seeds to blow all over the place so you just don’t know where another one is going to pop up next year, or the year after that.

But Kathryn was keen on poppies.

I was sitting down with the newspaper and a fresh pot of tea (I knew she’d be back by one thirty, so the kettle went on at one twenty-five, and I was usually pouring by the time she opened the front door). She stood in front me and waved her packet of seeds; her dark hair shook around her shoulders.

‘Look what I’ve got.’

‘Do you want tea?’ I asked.

‘What? Oh, yes. Thanks.’ She sat opposite me and held out the packet of poppy seeds before her.

‘They’re so beautifully red. And yet so delicate.’ She seemed pleased with that thought. ‘Don’t you think so, Howard?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t it strange how a flower can have such a strong colour and yet be so vulnerable?’

I looked up from my newspaper. ‘Where are you going to plant them?’

‘I thought I’d just scatter them. You know. Be a bit free-spirited about it.’

I laughed. ‘You can’t just scatter them. I’ve got to know where they are. For watering.’

‘But you water everywhere,’ she said. ‘Anyway. There’s no need to worry. I’ll look after them.’

‘What do you know about gardening?’ I asked, reaching out to take the packet from her.

‘What do I need to know?’ She snatched the packet back. ‘You shove them in the ground and hope for the best. Then you spend hours out there, watering, trimming, hoeing and picking out the bits you don’t want, and – Bob’s your uncle – you’re a gardener. Apparently.’

We stared at each other.

‘Well. You’d better plant them, then,’ I said, opening the back door and stepping outside. I had box to trim, dahlias to dead-head. Plenty to keep me busy.

About an hour later, I stopped and looked up at the back of our house. Kathryn was standing at the bedroom window, staring out at me. I waved, and she opened the window.

‘I’m going to plant them,’ she called. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the neighbours weren’t in their gardens.

‘Oh yes?’

‘Watch me.’ She leant out and shook the open packet. The wind must have carried most of the seeds over into next door’s garden, but I felt a few of them brush my face as they fell to the earth.

‘That’s what I call gardening,’ she said, and she closed the window.