She watches her husband drive away. Exhaust smoke from his black van lingers and seems to congeal with freezing fog. Looking out onto the garden, she gazes at a bare garden table set in the middle of an icy patio. Gone are the citronella lamps, dragon fly lights and forest green parasol. All are packed away in the garage. Pots and planters are nude of growth and colour. Geraniums, their bright red heads, only a memory of warmth and sunlight.

Now it seems that even autumn has packed away her mellow finery leaving behind a dreary canvas in wait for spring to revive nature’s current dowdiness. Only evergreens bushes and trees flaunt without competition until, once again, snowdrops emerge and crocus point their purple, yellow and white heads above cold earth once more.

Even, Seamus, the tortoise is hibernating in his upside down, tough plastic box under the bay tree. His bed of straw will keep him snug until the first warm rays of March rouse him from a deep sleep. In the corner of the garden, three ageing goldfish swim almost at the bottom of the pond, rarely coming up to the surface to snaffle at small drowning flies. The cold has put a stop to their aquatic frolics.

The cloud of exhaust has disappeared but fog remains. She worries about her young husband. Worries that he will stay safe driving along winter’s treacherous roads. He tells her she worries too much. Thinks too much. The baby stirs. She moves away from the window and starts wrapping Christmas presents which she’ll put under the tree.

She strokes her bulging stomach. Feels the baby kick. When her husband returns, she knows that with his homecoming, her fears will disappear. Then over dinner, they will make plans for their first child due at the end of January, and a family holiday on the Isle of Wight, the following summer.