At the end of the lane, where the pavement runs out, there’s a gate, and a path, and a butt with a spout, and beyond are the plots, and the sheds, and the beans, and the third from the end is where Stan grows his greens.

And tonight there’s a torch coming up through the gate, and it’s Rosie and Stan, and it’s terribly late for a girl who is seven, but Stan said he’d show her the stars from the shed, and a grandad should know.

So they sit on the bench with a blanket and flask, and she says, “Which is which?” and it’s quite a big ask, for the sky is all stars from the fence to the shed, and Stan says, “Give it time,” and he tilts back his head.

“That’s the Plough,” he says, pointing. “It looks like a pan.” “It looks more like a trowel,” says Rosie to Stan. “That’s the fault of the Greeks. They’d no trowels back then.” And she thinks about that, and says, “Show me again.”

“That’s Orion, up there, with his sword at his side, and his shoulders are stars, and his shoulders are wide, and a dog at his heel, and he’s chasing a hare, and he’s chased it for years, and it’s always still there.”

“Do the beans see the stars?” Rosie asks him. He nods. “Do the beans like the stars?” “Well, the beans are in pods, and they’re tucked up, like you ought to be, but I’d say that they like it, the same as they like a good day.”

And a star, at the edge of the sky, comes undone, and it slips down the dark, and it’s gone, and it’s one you can wish on, says Stan, so she squeezes her eyes, and she won’t say for what, and he says that is wise.

And it’s cold, but it’s not the cold kind that you mind, with the blanket, and Stan, and the shed just behind, and the smell of the earth, and the smell of the tea, and the whole of the sky with its stars, and it’s free.

“Are there more?” Rosie asks, and her voice has gone slow. “There are more,” he says, “more than a grandad can know, but they’ll all still be here when you’re older than me, and you’ll bring someone up here, and show them. You’ll see.”

And she leans on his arm, and she doesn’t say more, and the sky doesn’t either, it’s done that before, and the beans in their pods, and the leeks in their row, are as quiet as Rosie, who’s starting to go.

So he lifts her up, blanket and all, and the flask, and he carries her home, and she doesn’t once ask which is which any more, for she knows, and it’s late, and the stars follow after, and out through the gate.