‘Cheek.’ Betsy halted in her tracks to tuck the ends of her pink headscarf into the collar of her bright yellow raincoat and squinted as I approached. ‘Pippa, is that you?’

‘It’s Lottie,’ Marjorie chuckled. ‘You can tell because she’s not mooning about like a lovesick puppy but she does huff and puff when she walks.’

‘I do not,’ I said, pausing to catch my breath.

Marjorie and Betsy exchanged know-it-all looks.

‘Anyway,’ said Betsy, wiping her watery eyes with the back of her hand, ‘we’re reporting for duty. What shall we do?’

‘Take it easy and watch from the window,’ I said simply. ‘Enjoy being inside while the rest of us feel like we’re in the black-and-white bit of The Wizard of Oz when the hurricane hits Kansas.’

‘How tedious,’ said Marjorie.

‘I will not be written off just because I’m mature,’ said Betsy crossly. ‘You’re being ageist.’

‘I’m being practical,’ I said, touching her arm. ‘Look at me – I’d love to be out there getting stuck in but I can’t. My back’s already aching and it’s only ten o’clock.’

‘She’s right, Bets.’ Marjorie sighed. ‘It’s just such a great Dunkirk spirit out there. We’re missing out on all the fun.’

They looked dejected and I felt a pang of guilt for dismissing their efforts so swiftly.

‘Look,’ I said, thinking that no one had said I’d need the skills of a UN peacekeeper to do this job, ‘there’s a gang of people down there who are going to be freezing to death if we don’t look after them. What about making some soup and sandwiches for them?’

‘Consider it done,’ said Betsy, brightening instantly. ‘Tell everyone we’ll eat in my dining room. It’ll be a squash but we can just about manage it.’

Marjorie pouted. ‘I hate cooking.’

I thought on my feet, making up the teeniest lie. ‘I’ve been expecting a letter from the hospital about some blood tests and it hasn’t arrived. It might have got mixed up in the post for the house. Could you have a quick scan through the office for me?’

‘No problem,’ said Marjorie. ‘I might do a bit of tweeting while I’m at it. Pick up where Olivia left off. Hashtag English wine, hashtag harvest 2018.’

Olivia had taken Sazzle home last night, but not before Marjorie had cornered her and asked her to explain social media. Unfortunately, Marjorie had pressed something while Olivia’s back was turned and Marjorie’s entire camera roll had uploaded to Facebook. Olivia had been a nervous wreck when she left.

‘Go for it,’ I grinned as Betsy span the wheelchair back round.

‘Oi, that’s the potato patch again!’ Marjorie yelped.

‘Hashtag you don’t say,’ said Betsy gleefully. ‘Pull up a plant or two while we’re here, Mar, we’ll have vichyssoise.’

‘Urgh. Isn’t that cold soup?’