I lifted the lid and peered into the tureen, eager to change the subject. The soup was bright pink and smelled slightly of aniseed.

‘The pink colour comes from beetroot,’ she explained.

I replaced the lid and then opened up the fridge. It was empty, apart from three old leeks and a couple of spare carrots for the rabbit.

Mrs Meadows carefully slid the tureen on to a lower shelf and I closed the door. Now a pen and some paper …

‘Franklin – Mr Huff – says you own an extremely ancient cat.’ Mrs Meadows smiled, walking over, somewhat mystified, to peer once again at the tiny rabbit.

‘Yes.’ I nodded. ‘He was my mother’s originally.’

‘Apparently his sister ran over its tail in the hire-car when they first arrived …’ She chuckled.

‘Yes. No, not his sister …’ I started off, then quickly stopped myself.

‘Pardon?’ Mrs Meadows looked up.

‘It was unfortunate,’ I conceded.

‘He said your garden fell into the sea,’ she continued, walking over to the wall to inspect a framed sketch of a herring gull.

‘Yes. Up in Fairlight.’ I nodded, uneasily, tucking my fringe behind my ear. ‘It’s not actually my garden. I’m house-sitting for a—’

‘He said you were constantly tucking your fringe behind your ears – just like that!’ she interrupted, grinning. ‘He did a little impersonation of it. He said he found it perfectly riveting. He said he honestly couldn’t understand why you didn’t just pin it back, like any normal person would.’

‘Oh,’ I said, resisting the urge to tuck my fringe behind my ear again.

‘Although it’s a perfectly lovely fringe,’ she added. ‘Men understand nothing of these matters, do they?’

‘Oh,’ I repeated, ‘thanks.’

‘In fact he talks about you a great deal …’ She moved over to the sideboard and picked up an old tin which had once contained typewriter tape, then another one (from Miss Vaughn’s small collection of old tins) that had a picture of the queen on it (although someone had scratched a large, walrus-style moustache on to the top lip). ‘He’s very funny – very engaged, very witty – whenever he talks about you,’ Mrs Meadows maintained, ‘which is why I thought you’d be a little bit … well, older, somehow, slightly less attractive.’

‘It’s possible that you’re confusing me with Mrs Barrow,’ I suggested, ‘his elderly housekeeper. She’s considered quite a character.’

‘Did Mrs Barrow’s garden fall into the sea, too?’ Mrs Meadows wondered.

‘No,’ I conceded, ‘Mrs Barrow lives next door …’ Again, I resisted the urge to tuck my hair behind my ear. ‘And her garden – so far as I’m aware – is relatively secure.’

Mrs Meadows burst out laughing again. I gazed over at her, confused.

‘Sorry, it’s just that … when you talk I just … I just can’t help seeing the way Franklin … His little impersonation. It’s so amazingly accurate! I mean he really does have you down perfectly.’

I tried not to look offended. I was offended.