‘You have no poetry in your soul…’ I say, but then I regret it. ‘Oh dear – that was rude.’

‘Rude? How?’’

‘You’re a scientist by education, aren’t you? I suppose in scientific terms, I want to smell the air. In spring, it’s full of life. Or full of life about to happen.’

‘Do you mean pheromones?’

‘Do I? I don’t know. But Winifred – my mind is so clear. I was remembering my father. And not like – not in the sort of floating, rambling way – the dreamy way – the way my mind was – a few days ago, I think. And listen to me. Talking is easy today!’

Winifred smiles, and nods.

‘You certainly are talking well.’

‘You don’t seem surprised.’

‘I am pleased. It’s good news.’

That’s an understatement if ever I heard one. She’s remarkably calm, this one.

‘I want to get out into the garden. Like back at home. Well, not quite. That was such an exceptional garden. I wonder who lives there now. I must ask John, or Laura. Or Ben. One of those children will know. They all know.’

‘Home? Your house before you came here?’

‘Yes – the garden was my work of art. And it was always full of birds. I used to watch them, you know. I had some opera glasses on the windowsill. I knew them all. The birds. The same ones kept coming down. You get to know them. And Bill loved the garden – my husband – though he wasn’t much use in it, apart from bonfires. He’d love this one if we sort it out. If we sort it out, it will be the sort of garden he would have loved, I mean. Got my tenses in a muddle there. Never mind. Look at it.’

Winifred looks out. ‘I observe a lawn, with five species of grass growing in it, plus four kinds of weed, and some moss. The borders contain a range of flowering plants, none yet more than green shoots, and shrubs, all in early growth. The lawn has worm casts on it, and three species of bird. Blackbird, thrush and starling. And a small group of sparrows has arrived, noisily.’

‘Winifred – I’m looking though. Looking, looking, looking. I can see. Not everything, but much more than before. When I was dreaming. When I was dozing. I woke up and I could see again.’

‘It’s wonderful news.’

‘How is it possible? I was told… I think… my eyes would never get better. And now they have.’

‘Since when?’

‘This morning. I didn’t call you. I thought I might jinx it.’

‘Jinx it?’

‘Silly, I know. Superstition – if I said anything, it would go away. Like your Christmas presents, if you got up too early. You have no idea what I’m talking about, have you?’

‘No. I’m glad you can see better. And that you’ve told me. It’s good news.’