The youngest amongst the others were Beth and Rob from number 2. They, it appeared, were the ones whose pink baby buggy spent so much time propped against the hall wall downstairs. Their daughter Carrie was spending the night at Beth’s mother’s, meaning they could actually both come out together, which they assured her was a very rare occurrence. Prue got the impression she was probably keeping them from their bed as they both kept yawning and she caught Rob looking at his watch on more than one occasion. They did love the idea of a garden though, especially as an outdoor play space for Carrie, who was just about to turn three, and most of their ideas revolved around getting a swing or a slide and making sure there was enough space to ride a bike.

Also from the ground floor was Stan, who was probably only about sixty but acted as if he was at least twenty years older. A miserable old bugger, he had clearly come along with the sole intention of complaining. All those people banging the garden door and throwing balls against the walls and windows, even though his were at the front and didn’t even overlook the garden. The noise, the disruption, the smell from the barbecues … and for what? A poncey new garden they had all lived perfectly well without all these years. There was grass already. What more did they need? As she refilled Stan’s cup Prue found it hard even to look at him for fear of doing something he could find fault with. Tea too hot, not enough milk, the wrong type of sugar …

‘And as for the absent Miss Cardew,’ Stan went on, ‘I wouldn’t bother asking what she thinks of it all. Never see the woman. She’s away half the time.’

‘Yes, what interest has she ever shown in the garden?’ Suzy replied. ‘Or in what the rest of us want? You’re right, Stanley. She’s too busy with her play acting.’

‘I think she takes it a bit more seriously than that, Mum. She’s done Shakespeare and all. Look, she even won an award.’ Aaron picked up Madi’s statuette from the mantelpiece, eager to come to her defence, and read out the words on the base. ‘The Hamlet Society. Best newcomer. Presented to Madalyn Cardew, 1979. Do you want to hold it, have a feel of it? It’s very shiny, and engraved …’

‘Huh! Why would I want to do that? Hamlet Society, indeed. Hardly the Oscars, is it? Put the damn thing down, in case you break it. Besides, that was more than forty years ago. What has she done since, eh? Off round the country, playing little theatres nobody’s heard of. Such a waste, leaving this lovely flat empty so often when we—’

‘Okay, Mum. Not now.’

An air of awkwardness descended.

Across the room, in Madi’s best armchair, sat Miss Parker from number 3. She was a very small, quiet woman, probably in her eighties, with wrinkled skin and a long straight nose which somehow, in the absence of any first name being offered, lent itself to the obvious nickname of Nosey Parker, which had rapidly sprung into Prue’s head and now refused to go away. Whether the woman was actually nosey remained to be seen as she said very little, just held her cup rigidly, inches above her lap, and turned her head this way and that, like a curious bird, towards whoever happened to be speaking. Which, once Suzy had said her piece and retreated back into silence, tended to be Betty.