‘Is that her name in Chinese, then?’ Biddy wonders, indicating the top line of the address.

‘No. I think it says something like … uh … “to the crazy, European lady traveller who is walking the Great Wall. I humbly ask that you – the wall guard at Huanghua – please keep this letter for her until she arrives, when she will reward you generously for your kindness. A thousand blessings …” All very flowery and Chinese. I don’t know, exactly … something like that, anyway. She sends me her next contact address enclosed in each letter so I can just cut it out and glue it on to an envelope.’

‘Oh.’ Biddy nods.

‘It’s all fairly hit and miss,’ I continue (suddenly compelled – through guilt and embarrassment – to blather on, inanely). ‘The wall’s over five thousand miles long. Although Tilda seems to think it’s even longer than that. In her last postcard she said she’d recently met someone – a Chinese historian or a geographer – who told her that the wall originally spanned over fifteen thousand miles …’

‘I simply don’t understand why Matilda bothered buying that bungalow in the first place if she never had any plans to live in it,’ Biddy sighs, taking the letter from me and dropping it on to the scales.

‘No.’

Clifford has now moved on to the rack of birthday cards.

‘Although I suppose it gives you a roof over your poor head,’ she kindly concedes, ‘so you can rent out your little cottage in Pett and don’t need to be getting under the feet of your dear old dad.’

‘Yes.’ I nod (concerned that she might be confusing my reassuringly tough head or my utterly incorrigible father with someone else’s head – someone else’s dad – far more deserving than mine).

‘Have you ever actually lived in the cottage since you inherited it?’ she wonders.

‘Uh. No, no. I’ve always been committed to—’

‘Someone’s birthday?’ Biddy raises her voice to finally acknowledge Clifford.

Clifford is inspecting a card very closely. He is so engrossed that he doesn’t seem to hear her.

‘SOMEONE’S BIRTHDAY, RUSTY?’ Biddy bellows.

Clifford’s entire body jolts with surprise. He drops the card then bends down to pick it up, inadvertently bumping into a wicker basket containing bags of kindling.

‘Mine,’ he says, then, ‘Sorry,’ (to the basket).

‘Yours?’ Biddy scowls.

Clifford clumsily retrieves the card.

‘The day before yesterday.’ Clifford nods.

(Oh God! The day of the landslip! I have forgotten Clifford’s birthday again, dammit!) ‘It’s visible from space,’ he adds, as a somewhat lacklustre afterthought, ‘the Great Wall.’

‘Happy birthday for … for …’ I start to murmur, agonized.

‘Are you planning on getting yourself a card, Rusty?’ Biddy wonders, with a supercilious smirk.

‘Uh … no.’

Clifford puts the card back down on to the rack.

‘Thank you,’ he mutters.

‘Because you’re two days late!’ Biddy delivers her ringing punch-line with considerable pizzazz.

‘I was actually just after some … uh … matches.’ Clifford grabs a pile of kindling and then moves over towards the ‘shop’ section of the store. There he grabs a packet of Tuc biscuits and proceeds to the counter which is currently vacant because Biddy is in the P.O.