Fiona glanced around the room and said, ‘This is the residents’ lounge. It’s a bit early though.

'You’re an early riser Doris,’ she said to the woman by her side, ‘but Ted’s here. He’s an early riser too. Ted, this is Doris. She moved in yesterday. Come and sit by Ted.’

She moved a chair nearer to where Ted was sitting and helped Doris towards it. Fiona looked at her watch. ‘Must go, plenty to do before the shifts change over.’

‘Good morning, Doris,’ said Ted with a polite smile. ‘A pleasure to meet you.’

Doris sat down and looked at him. He seemed what she would call ‘respectable’ – nice suit, collar and tie and she noticed a small white rose bud in his lapel.

‘Good morning,’ she replied. She wondered whether she should sit quietly or if she should engage this man in conversation. But what could she talk about? She looked round the room and her eye caught the roses in a vase on the window sill.

‘Someone ought to water those flowers,’ she said pointing her walking stick towards the window.

Ted smiled. ‘They don’t need any water. They’re plastic.’

‘Well, they look real to me. Mind you my eyesight isn’t wonderful. Wouldn’t expect it to be at my age I suppose. I’m 85 you know.’

Ted hesitated before he spoke. ‘Doris, you’re looking very good for 85. Very lovely if I might say.’

A faint blush, the colour of the roses, lit up Doris’ cheeks. No one had really noticed her since she had been on her own. The conversation stalled and for a while both residents looked at the vase of roses. Doris saw their pink hue and was reminded of the dress she wore when she first met her husband Peter more than 50 years ago. The roses annoyed Ted. It was their plastic appearance that so piqued him. He grimaced.

‘Are you OK Ted?’ asked Fiona, seeing the look on his face as she came back into the lounge. ‘You look cross. I hope Doris hasn’t been upsetting you.’

Doris. Hearing her own name brought her back to the present with a start. Peter had been dead for 3 years and the realisation that she was alone and not in their old house struck her hard. A tear began to fall.

Fiona saw it and wondered if she’d misread the situation. Ted was usually a quiet gentleman – no trouble at all and always so polite.

‘Ted, have you upset Doris?’

‘I sincerely hope not,’ he replied quickly. ‘I definitely wouldn’t like to upset such a dear lady.’ He pulled a neatly folded handkerchief from his top pocket and offered it to Doris, who took it, wiped her cheek and smiled weakly. ‘Doris was just suggesting that the roses needed some water, but Fiona, I think they just need a bit of dusting, don’t you? It’s such a pity they’re not real. Why can’t we have some real flowers?’

‘That would be lovely Ted, but it would be too expensive I’m afraid.’

‘Pity. Real roses would fill the room with perfume. Very uplifting for our spirits. Francois Bouton for example. Hybrid tea. Very fragrant. Or Joie d’été. Lovely scent.’ Ted sniffed the air as if gathering past memories.

‘You seem to know a lot about roses,’ said Doris.

‘I used to grow them.’

‘So did I,’ she replied, glad to find some interest they could perhaps discuss. ‘I had some lovely white ones in my garden that flowered all summer. You could smell the perfume a mile away!’

‘Just Jilly,’ replied Ted. ‘Very prolific. Repeat flowering. Wonderful scent. I introduced that one at Chelsea in 1962. It won me my first gold medal. You can still buy it today, I believe.’

‘A gold medal?’

‘My company was famous for its roses. We’ve bred so many new varieties over the years. Edward Parker Roses – you must have heard of us.’

The name rolled round in Doris’ head. ‘I had your roses for my wedding,’ she said. ‘Not many, ’she added, ‘but just enough to make the day special.’

‘My grandson runs the business now – he’s very clever. He’s bred several new varieties, but I’ve told him not to let the old ones disappear. They’re part of our heritage.’

‘We mustn’t forget our past,’ agreed Doris. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I need to go back to my room. I hope we can talk again about roses.’ With help from Fiona, Doris stood up and made her way out of the lounge. A nice man she thought. Her cheeks glowed again as she remembered the kind compliment he had given her.

The next day there was a knock on Doris’ door. Standing in the doorway was Fiona with a tall young man whose face was hidden behind an enormous bouquet of white roses.

‘For Doris,’ she heard as he offered the flowers towards her. ‘From Grandad,’ he added. ‘The message from him is – Looking forward to more early morning chats.’

‘Thank you so much. They’re so lovely. Fiona is there a vase I could have?’

‘I’ll sort it,’ replied Fiona. Romance in the home at last!