I agree, and she goes on to talk about stories she’s heard in the news, of cattle and sheep being stolen, and of people deliberately starting fires. Ian drinks his tea and listens, mostly watching Mandy, and occasionally looking over at me. I have the unique sensation of feeling like I’m in good hands.

I know that if they start to ask me questions about what I have been up to, and where I was supposed to be going away to, I will not be able to come up with anything believable. The memory of my doppelganger comes to my rescue.

‘I had the strangest thing happen to me. A guy with my name and my address …’ I tell them the story, and then ask if they have ever heard of him or the address.

‘There is definitely a Wilson Road on the other side of town. Or it might be a Wilson Avenue or something. There were a lot of Wilsons amongst the early settlers in the area.’ Ian says. ‘And I’m pretty sure there’s a “Fythe Trees” out there somewhere, too. But I’ve never heard of a David Martin.’

Mandy shakes her head as if she knows nothing, and then says, ‘There is a Sue Martin who lives on a farm on that side of town.’

They volley possibilities at each other, and I stop listening. All I really wanted to do was take the focus away from me. But it occurs to me that I should go and have a look at Dave Martin and his place before he turns up at mine.

They are trying to agree on whether a Samson family live on that road, and I give a little laugh, and break into their to and fro. ‘Elaine Slade’s not dead. Did you hear that? The newspaper stuffed it up.’

Mandy rolls her eyes with a gesture of What can you expect? and says, ‘We did hear that. We were about to ring and see what we could do to help out when we found out it was a hoax.’

‘That newspaper ought to hire a real journalist or close down, as far as I’m concerned,’ Ian says, chastened.

‘I visited her. She seemed fine.’

I have said something they don’t understand, and they both look at me, unguarded in their interest.

‘You visited Elaine?’ Mandy asks, sounding like she thinks I’ve made a joke.

‘Yes.’

‘That was a nice thing to do.’

I nod. I hadn’t thought about there being a ‘nice’ aspect to it.

‘I’ve never had anything to do with her. She doesn’t come to any of the fundraisers or open gardens, or any of the other things we put on. She’ll give a donation, but she won’t socialise. Not that I know of, anyway. Quite beautiful, though.’ Mandy gives the impression that something as exotic as genuine beauty could be a reasonable excuse for antisocial behaviour.