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come here? I asked.
    Neighbour complaint, he said, writing busily. Friendly fat policeman with a moustache and a well-licked pencil.
    Who? Which neighbour? I had my suspicions — this was still wartime, most people were worried about Hitler, not extra-hours businesses. Was it the guy from the BP station on the corner? I asked.
    The policeman handed me the summons.
    It was, wasn’t it, I said.
    He reached into his jacket pocket and found an apple. Took a deliberate bite.
    That bastard, I said. Just because he can’t sell gas after six.
    Harriet had been doing her homework in the back room. She came into the shop as the policeman left, taking the flowers with him.
    When’s dinnertime? she asked. I’m starving.
    I didn’t say anything.
    What’s wrong? She recognized the summons in my hand. Is that why the policeman was here? Are we open too late again, Mother? We are, aren’t we.
    What time is it? I asked.
    What’s going to happen? Remember what the judge said last time?
    That bastard McIntosh, I said.
    Don’t swear, Mother. Do you mean Mr. McIntosh? From the gas station? Has he been complaining again?
    Is it really after six o’clock? I said.
    We were standing in the door of the shop. A cold clear winter evening. She pointed to the tower on the firehall across the street. I could just make out the hands on the big clock.
    It’s practically seven, Mother — see?
    Not really, I said.

    Are you finished? Dr. Sylvester asked me very gently. I guess I’d been staring into space for a while.
    Ten past eleven, right? I said, frowning down at the bent and withered clock hands, at my own hands, which weren’t withered at all but lumpy — great bumps of chalk and bone that rear up suddenly, like volcanoes from the earth’s crust.
    I might have set it at ten past eleven. That’s the time he wanted me to do. Does that say ten past eleven? I asked him.
    He smiled kindly. I don’t think he hated me — probably on account of my profile. He must have a tough life, though, shepherding thousands of uncertain old people through the Gates of Ivory. Watching their minds curl up at the edges like drying paper. Knowing that every time he saw them they’d be farther and farther away — and they’d never get better. None of them. Who’d be him? Mind you, who’d be me? Who’d be anybody if they could help it?
    Dr. Sylvester shook his head kindly and put the clock away. End of the test for today. We’ll do some more another time, he said, writing something in my file. Probably not about my cheekbones, though they had been praised in their day.
    Was that the reason behind McIntosh’s accusation, do you think? Was he truly in love with me? That’s what Harriet said, but what did she know? A little girl with geometry homework, what would she know about true love? He was an ordinary-looking man, middle-aged, middle-sized, hair that was neither brown nor black nor grey, but sort of a blend of them all. His chin was kind of long, and his nose was high-bridged. He had very short eyebrows — they only went halfway across his face, which meant he always looked a bit taken aback.
    Why did you call the cops on me? I asked him, the day after my summons. He was in the store to buy flowers. Loved flowers, he said, but had no one to give them to. Over the grime of years, his hands were red and raw with washing. The nails were clean.
    What do you mean, Rose? he asked. He had a high, soft voice.
    Last night a policeman came to my shop and charged me with operating after hours, I said. He was tipped off by a neighbour.
    Why do you think it was me?
    It was you last time, I said.
    He looked down at his boots. Neither of us had mentioned the last time.
    How do you know it wasn’t that guy from the bakery?
    Geoff?
    Yes. Geoff.
    His eyes darkened on the name. Not that Geoff Zimmerman and I were anything more than friendly acquaintances. His bakery stood between the hardware store and Ruby’s hat shop, about a block east of my flower shop. I