‘Are you all right, Clifford?’ I repeated, concerned.

‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘No. No I’m not all right. Not at all. I’m dreadful.’

He looked up. ‘I would never use the word “dreadful”!’ he bellowed, and then he paused, apparently stricken. ‘I don’t even know why I’m looking up,’ he whispered, half to himself, ‘or … or shouting. You could be anywhere. You could be everywhere. In this hutch. On the radio. Buzzing around like static electricity inside the mind of a little wasp sitting on the toe of my work boot …’

We both stared down at his work boot (well I did, and Clifford tried to, although the hutch obscured his view somewhat). For the record, there was no wasp sitting on the toe of his work boot.

‘Why don’t you put that hutch down for a second?’ I suggested. ‘Come inside and have a glass of something cooling …’

I stepped forward to take it from him.

‘I’m fine,’ he insisted, stepping back, as if repulsed by my approach. ‘It needs a bit of patching up. I’ll do it tonight and run it over to Mulberry in the morrow …’ He suddenly spluttered, mid-sentence, ‘Morrow?! In the morrow?! Bah!’ then he seemed – with some considerable effort – to regain control of himself. ‘I have a pile of guttering to sort out right now. In Iden …’ He turned.

‘If Iden isn’t just a figment of my over-active imagination,’ he muttered.

‘Well at least let me … this must’ve … we must reimburse you in some way.’ I trotted after him, horrified. ‘For all your …’

‘Forget about it,’ he barked, ‘I did this for Shimmy. You couldn’t reimburse me, Carla Hahn. There’s no amount.’

And that was it. He marched off.

‘No amount?’

I gazed after him (Carla Hahn?!).

‘There’s no amount?’ No amount of what? Was that even a proper sentence?

I made a pathetic half-attempt to follow him, and as he walked around the side of the house and through the gate I could’ve sworn I heard him yell, ‘What kind of a writer are you? Your timing’s a joke! Mr Huff woke up in darkness! In darkness! But now we’re back in the early afternoon again! And what day is this exactly, eh? It just doesn’t add up! It’s all totally skew-whiff! And how about the parrot chapter? Eh? That entire segment was a disaster! You broke your first-person rule! You slipped into the third! D’you seriously think you’ll get away with that?’

This was followed by a loud ‘OW!’ as he knocked his funny-bone into the lock on the gate.

‘I suppose that was you, too!’ he bellowed.

Holy Queen, Most Joyful Mother, we are sinful weeds in your fragrant garden. Please bind us in your gentle hands …

… in your gentle …

… in your …

… and offer us all in a daisy crown of love to your merciful Son, and to God the Father.

She was sending me a message, wasn’t she? Orla? Darling, crazy, doggedly persistent Orla? Saint of the Potato Peelings? Through my … through … through these, my hands? Through my hands and … and through the landslip? Perhaps? Or was the landslip just …?