‘Imagine as those little kiddies paddling around in them crashing waves, barely able to stay afloat, an’ all the searchlights is off looking for you! Or else all the necessary funds is dried up so’s they can’t affords them to mount a proper search when the disaster finally strikes!’

‘Perhaps the national government might consider stepping in and offering support …’ I suggested, moving the carrot and the little water bowl out of harm’s way.

‘Imagine them poor mothers weeping their eyes out all the ways along the sea wall.’ Mrs Barrow walked to the window, picturing the scene. ‘Our local sailing boats settin’ out in bad weather, determined to play their part. But it’s pitch dark out there, Carla. An’ those disadvantaged kiddies will only last a few minutes in them icy waves, at most.’

‘Horrible,’ I confirmed, starting to roll up the dirty paper.

Mrs Barrow slowly shook her head, struggling to digest the full ramifications of this (let’s be honest) perfectly demented scenario.

‘I even as saw Sorcha Jennett lighting up some special mourning pyre right in the middle of the blackthorn earlier!’ Mrs Barrow scoffed. ‘In your honour! Surrounded by cameras, she was. Mrs Brightling was furious about it – even allowing for your only recently having passed, Carla! A terrible fire hazard she said it was! And all that infernal singing and dancing! An’ those feral kids of hers jumping about banging their little drums and the smoke going all over her clean washing!’

‘Oh dear.’ I cringed, carrying the scrunched-up newspaper over to the kitchen bin and gently lifting the lid with the tips of my fingers.

‘I went up to her myself as it happens an’ I says, “Sorcha,” I says, “I wouldn’t be troubling yourself overmuch about Carla Hahn, given as that she’s only been hiding up at Mulberry, happy as Larry, while all the rest of us fools has gone mad with upset at the thought of her bungalow falling off a cliff!”’

‘The bungalow did still fall off a cliff,’ I murmured, shoving the paper into the bin, but the bin – alas – was almost full to capacity and so it wouldn’t quite fit.

‘It wasn’t as even your bungalow, Carla!’ Mrs Barrow was suitably indignant. ‘Imagine as what terrible pranks you could of pulled on us all if it had been!’

‘So how … how did Sorcha Jennett react to the news?’ I wondered (refusing to engage with this harrowing new example of Mrs Barrow’s extraordinarily round-about logic) while trying to force the paper down with a shove which merely – in turn – dislodged the bin-lid.

‘Well she as laughed her head off!’ Mrs Barrow harrumphed. ‘Then sang a hymn of thanksgiving, an’ then give them filthy kiddies a pound to go get ’em some marshmallows to toast on the fire. A right little pow-wow it ended up! I’m surprised as you didn’t hear it. It’s been drivin’ everyone in the Coastguards’ round the twist for the past nigh-on two hour!’