She enters with a single word. Posh Edinburgh accent.

‘Buttons?’

I show her where the buttons are. She stands in front of the display. Indecisive. As many button buyers are.

‘Can you help me?’

‘All the buttons we have are on display.’ I say, ‘you know best what you want.’

Gently she crumbles, like a bolt of cotton when you remove the cardboard from the middle. I get her a chair and a glass of water.

‘It is for my husband,’ she says. ‘His cremation is tomorrow, and I need to sew a missing button on his suit. After all, he has to look presentable for the viewing. It is the least I can do.’

I help her. We compare colour, size, and likeness.

‘Was it sudden?’ I ask, for something to say.

‘He got very forgetful in the end,’ she says. ‘But yes, it was sudden. He poisoned himself.’

I wince; wrong question.

We settle on a button. She gets up, puts a pound coin on the counter.

‘It will all be over by tomorrow evening. And on Friday I will fly to Lanzarote. For six weeks.’

‘To recuperate,’ I say.

‘Yes, to recuperate.’

At the door she turns around.

‘He shouldn’t have killed my rose bush, you know. Threw a litre of bleach on the roots. But then, he was very forgetful at the end.’