Ten minutes later, Marjorie had gone, all the doors were locked, except the winery where Clare was cleaning and labelling some bottles ready for dispatch. (The virtual sales company Jensen had recommended was already proving to be a boon and stocks of the 2015 vintage were diminishing rapidly.) I’d collected my various hospital letters and the three of us were in Jensen’s car. As he started a three-point turn to head towards the drive, a little white Honda hatchback glided smoothly towards us, the driver tooting the horn.

‘Jensen, wait,’ I said, leaning forward from the back seat. ‘That’s Godfrey.’

With a glance at the time, Jensen sighed and put his brakes on and Godfrey came to a halt in front of us. He climbed out of the car and scurried over, waving a sheet of paper excitedly.

Betsy fumbled to open her passenger window and Jensen pressed a button to do it for her.

‘Morning, Godfrey; be a dear and move your car,’ she ordered. ‘We’ve got to get to the hospital.’

Godfrey was breathing heavily and his smile faltered. ‘Good Lord. Not another emergency?’

‘No!’ I said at the same time as Jensen and Betsy both said, ‘Yes!’

His shoulders drooped. ‘In that case I won’t keep you, it can wait.’

He looked so deflated that I took pity on him and wound my own window down too. ‘Godfrey, what’s the letter about?’

He mopped his head with his handkerchief. ‘Not a letter; an email. I logged on this morning and there it was! I read it through twice and printed out copies for you and Betsy and then decided it couldn’t wait, so here I am.’

Jensen tapped the time on his digital display. ‘Thanks, Godfrey, we’ll read it in the car.’

Godfrey looked agitated. ‘I did want to discuss it now; it really is rather urgent.’

And we really did need to leave. ‘What’s the gist of it?’ I asked.

‘You remember Olivia Channing? From the open day?’

‘English Wine bod,’ Betsy cut in. ‘Yes, yes, what about her?’

‘She’s got a slot on national radio next month to talk about English wines and wants someone from Butterworth Wines to go with her.’ The old man’s chest was so puffed out with pride, he looked about to pop. He lowered his voice reverentially. ‘In London. What do you think about that?’

‘Next month?’ Betsy gave him a withering look. ‘I think it could have blasted well waited, that’s what I think.’

His chin wobbled. ‘But she needs an answer today or she’ll offer it to another vineyard.’

‘Lottie will do it, won’t you?’ said Betsy blithely.

‘Is that wise?’ I said with a gentle laugh. ‘I’ve only been in the wine business five minutes.’

Godfrey raised a finger timidly. ‘And it needs to be a Butterworth. Or family.’

Betsy turned to look at her grandson.