Irene jerked her head back. Her mouth twisted in a sneer. ‘Certainly not.’ She marched over to the help desk. ‘The sign clearly states that refreshments are for library users only. If you’re finished with your session, I must insist that you leave the hot drinks facilities for those legitimately entitled to them.’

I packed up and went home, refusing to allow a sour grouch to deflate the high of such a positive coaching session. Another note had been pushed through my letterbox:

My only request is that you clear the clutter off your lawn before tomorrow morning.

A friendly lot, this Bigley bunch.

I cleared the forgotten empty lemonade bottle and bin bags full of wallpaper strippings and went to search online for fence panels.

At eight o’clock on Wednesday morning, as I perched on the step for my morning tea, it took a moment to realise what was different. The lawn had been mowed into perfectly aligned stripes. The weeds that grew in the cracks between the paving slabs by the back door had disappeared. I wandered in my bare feet to where my section of garden met the far hedge. The windows in my neighbour’s cottage were shrouded with Venetian blinds, but I offered a huge smile and a wave, just in case.

I spent most of that day on the phone, contacting local agencies to tell them about the new service and following it up with emails and information packs. In the afternoon I baked a batch of sticky toffee muffins, placing one carefully inside a gift bag, with a note saying:

Thanks for tidying up the garden! I’m happy to mow next time, if you don’t mind me using your mower.

I placed it on the doorstep of Middle Cottage, knocked firmly on the door and scuttled back home.

An hour later, the doorbell rang. It was Joan, holding up the gift bag. ‘This was outside your door.’

‘Oh, right.’ I peeked inside – the muffin still sat there. A line had been added to the bottom of my note:

Wheat-intolerant. And I do mind.

‘Have you met the man in Middle Cottage?’ I asked as we walked through to the kitchen.

‘Ebenezer?’

‘Is that his name?’

Joan shrugged. ‘He looks like it should be.’

I took a bottle of still lemonade out of the fridge and poured us each a glass. ‘So you don’t know him?’

‘He does a lot of gardening, but it’s always in secret when nobody sees. And sometimes he puts a letter through the door asking us to stop shouting or turn the TV down.’ She took a long gulp of her drink. ‘I’ve seen him going to the shops sometimes. He wears funny T-shirts but he doesn’t seem very friendly.’

‘Hmm.’ I offered her the muffin from the bag, which appeared untouched. ‘I’m thinking that maybe we can win him round.’