By the time I’d finished, and came downstairs, the dresser was in situ in the breakfast room and Verbena’s cheery visitor had obviously been gone for some time. Verbena was standing before her new purchase, considering the exact placement of a piece of chunky pottery. When she saw me, she reached reluctantly for her leather wallet. Every time she pays me, she goes through the same ritual, a sigh and a little shake of the head, as if I’m bankrupting her.

One day I pointed out to her that I cost a lot less than the plumber she’d just cheerfully handed over a wad of cash to for ten minutes’ work. She had replied, somewhat reproachfully, that a plumber is a qualified professional with specialist skills. I didn’t argue, just suggested that the next time she blocked up her waste disposal, she sent for me.

Afterwards I called on Maisie. They say that dogs and their owners look alike but this is not the case with Jacko and Maisie. Jacko is a bristly barrel of coarse fur on four short legs, an incompatible mixture of nasty terriers. I can’t walk him with other dogs because he’s a psychopath. Maisie, with her apricot curls and button black eyes, resembles a poodle more than anything else. She’s ninety-four, and my job for her is to shop, walk her dog, fetch prescriptions and occasionally, clean. It’s a flexible arrangement.

Her cottage is in Brook Lane, so called because of the Ashburn, a little tributary of the River Dart that slides sneakily under much of the town, emerges here and there to show itself as a tiny rill running along a ditch beside the road. It was possible to reach Maisie’s gate only by stepping on a tiny bridge made from an old flagstone. Hers is one of just four cottages in the lane, and like many roads in country towns, once past the last house the tarmac degrades into a rough track, leading between fields.

Maisie was sitting on the cottage floor when I walked inside, her back propped up against the sofa, her little legs stretched out before her. I could see the soles of her pink sheepskin slippers, shiny with wear.

‘Hello, lovey!’ she sang out cheerily.

‘What are you doing down there?’ I kicked Jacko away as he ran forward, barking shrilly, and tried to hump my leg. ‘Have you had a fall?’

‘I skidded on a teabag.’ She pointed towards the culprit, squashed damply on her kitchen lino. It was one of several littering the area around her overflowing pedal bin. I knelt down beside her. ‘When was this?’

‘Oh, an hour ago or so.’

‘Have you hurt yourself?’