I nodded (quietly satisfied that the children, at least, had benefited positively from my unexpected return to the Land of the Living), then crouched down and removed the paper, adjusted the lid and tried to shove it back in again. At this moment the doorbell rang (which struck me as curious, given that the doorbell never rang because of a fault with the wiring).

‘A person might almost think as the whole thing had been set up for the benefit of them pesky cameras!’ Mrs Barrow muttered, going off to answer it.

‘I don’t think even Sorcha’s generous filming budget would stretch to the demolition of a small bungalow,’ I called after her, trying to flatten the paper slightly so that the flip-top lid might still flip. It was then, as I smoothed the paper, that I happened upon …

‘A telegram for Mr Huff!’ Mrs Barrow returned. ‘Ought we to open it in case it be somethin’ urgent?’

I scowled and stood up. The tiny rabbit made several heroic attempts to jump out of the mixing bowl, but the surface was too shiny for its little paws to grip.

‘It might be private,’ I said, heading out on to the porch where the hutch now sat, a clean bag of straw leaning up against it. I gazed at the straw. What an immensely kind person Clifford was. To provide the straw like that. Without even being asked. So thoughtful. So considerate. Even after … even when … even considering …

Mrs Barrow followed me out on to the balcony. ‘I suppose as your dear friend Miss Drury will’ve been worrying herself into a thin paste all day on your account,’ she grumbled, ‘drivin’ her son-in-law’s old window-cleaner’s van halfway across the country to collect Mr Huff from that monastery.’

‘Sorry?’

I turned.

‘She took her son-in-law’s van so’s Mr Huff could lie his’self in the back,’ Mrs Barrow expanded.

‘But why would Mr Huff need Alys Drury to …?’

‘On account of his buttocks sealing up of course!’ Mrs Barrow exclaimed.

‘His …?’

‘Buttocks! The monks told Miss Drury as they’d sealed right up. With all of the blisters. After his long walk. They had to cut ’em apart. And now he can’t so much as move.’

I knelt down, opened the hutch, spread out some of the clean newspaper and then covered it over with a couple of handfuls of the straw.

‘Poor Mr Huff!’ I finally managed, through tight lips (after approximately a minute of frenzied activity).

I could feel Mrs Barrow’s disapproving eyes fixed upon me from the rear. My shoulders were so stiff and so high that my head nestled between them like a boiled egg in a plastic eggcup.

‘Mrs Drury said as Mr Huff had fainted clean away and was out cold for five, straight hours,’ she said.

I sprang to my feet and dashed past Mrs Barrow (face turned to the wall so she couldn’t see my cheeks streaming with hysterical tears), heading back into the cottage to fetch the rabbit.