When I get to the end of the story, we’re on our third glass of port and I’m rather hoping that Evelyn can pull all the narrative threads together and tell me where I went so badly wrong. Alas, and all too typically, there’s no such easy denouement.

‘A mess,’ she agrees, re-corking the bottle. ‘Thank God you’re in Budleigh now.’

THREE

I get up late next morning to find a note from Evelyn lying on the kitchen table. She’s popped down to the church to confer with a couple of members of the festival committee ahead of tonight’s event. It seems they need to agree how long she’ll talk for, and what kind of questions she might like to field afterwards. The latter, of course, will be in the hands of the audience, but the right word in the right ear might prompt a more general discussion. The good news, meanwhile, is that ticket sales have been brisk, and that the festival organizers are anticipating a full-ish church. On her return, Evelyn will pick up pains aux raisins from the local bakery. Le petit dejeuner, she promises, sera un régal.

A treat? No need. I’m pouring myself a second cup of coffee when I hear the chime of the front doorbell. When I get there, I can see a mass of auburn hair behind the pebbled glass.

‘Christianne Beaucarne. Bienvenue à Budleigh. Enchantée.’

She’s a big woman, tall, warm, full of presence. She extends a hand, takes mine, smiles. Older than me? Yes, by at least a decade. In her other hand is a brown paper bag. She nods down the corridor towards the kitchen. She knows the place already. She may even know that I’m here alone.

‘Croissants?’ She gives the bag a gentle shake.

‘Très bien. Entrez … ’

We go through to the kitchen. While I search for plates and maybe even a little marmalade, I nod at the row of mugs above the work surface and suggest she pours herself a coffee. For the first time, she hesitates, eyeing the coffee pot. No. She’d prefer me to do it.

I shrug. Pas de probleme. We settle at the table. Already, this could be France, the smell of the coffee, the feel of the plump croissants under my fingertips, the ease with which we relapse into our native tongue. I establish that she comes from Amiens. I happen to know the city but when I ask exactly where she grew up, she doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s gazing at a box Evelyn keeps on the shelf beside her recipe books.

‘We had one exactly like that at home,’ she says. ‘I loved it.’