But receiving a phone call at nine thirty that morning seemed quite acceptable. It was not from someone she recognized, a man who identified himself simply as ‘Jeremiah’. (Given her own reluctance to use any of her surnames, Jude could hardly blame him for that.)

‘Good morning. My name is Jeremiah, and I am a healer.’

‘Ah. Good morning, Jeremiah.’

He had a deep, confident voice which she was sure could sound very empathetic in a therapy situation. ‘I’ve recently returned to this country after practising in the States and Australia for some years. Well, since I’ve been working in this area, everywhere I go I’m told that the go-to local healer is someone called Jude in Fethering.’

Unsure whether this was just flannel, Jude said nothing, so Jeremiah went on, ‘Anyway, a) I’d like to meet you, and b) I have an idea for a project on which I would be interested to get your views.’

Jude was wary of ‘projects’, particularly when put forward by other people in the therapeutic world. Too often, they involved some collaborative venture and, though Jude was very open to other people, she knew that her healing was only effective when she did it on her own. The concentration of energy she asked of herself was never so easy to summon up when there was a person other than her client present. But it would have been churlish to refuse to meet Jeremiah. Over the years, she had made a lot of friends through the business of healing and complementary medicine. Jude was a great believer in learning from other people.

So, she invited Jeremiah to join her for coffee at Woodside Cottage. He was going to be away for most of the next week but they fixed a date after that.

‘As you know, I don’t like gossip,’ Carole lied.

‘No?’ said Jude. ‘The only gossip you don’t like is the kind someone else heard before you did.’

Carole didn’t think this childish (if accurate) barb was worthy of response, so she just listened as her neighbour went on, ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard, though. It’s been round Fethering for months. The woman you met at the garage is called Malee. She’s Bill Shefford’s second wife. They married … I don’t know, eight months ago … might even be a year now.’

‘And where does she come from?’

‘Thailand.’

‘Good heavens. A “Thai Bride”?’ Carole breathed the words with appropriate tabloid awe.

‘If you want to call it that, I suppose she is, yes.’

‘Well …’

They were sitting in the cluttered front room of Woodside Cottage, a nest of soft furnishing, of rugs and throws. For her clients, Jude’s healing process started the moment they entered the nurturing ambience of her home.

‘What you’re saying,’ Carole went on, ‘is that Bill Shefford’s got a “Mail Order Bride”?’