The beach lies at the end of Budleigh’s main street. We pause on the lip of a long curve of pebbles, smooth, grey, dotted with curls of drying seaweed. The pebbles fall sheer to the tideline, and in the distance, beyond the beach, a headland is topped by a stand of trees. I’ve seen this view in at least three shops in the last half hour, faithfully reproduced on film and canvas, but Evelyn has something else on her mind.

‘Did I tell you about Christianne swimming?’

‘You didn’t.’

‘She goes in every day, along with some other chums, mainly women. And you know something else? She does it in winter, too.’

I nod, impressed yet not surprised. Then I tell her about the minefields, and Angola, and the kids with no legs. By now, I have Evelyn’s full attention.

‘She told you all that?’

‘She did. I asked a question or two, of course, but she was very happy to talk. Maybe it’s a French thing, two women together. Fifteen minutes over coffee and croissants and you can’t help comparing notes. Being nosey is our birthright. Curieux, n’est-ce pas?’

‘And that’s where Andy lost his leg? Got those marks on his face? In Angola?’ Evelyn shakes her head.

‘In Kuwait. Up near the border, apparently. First Gulf War.’

‘But he still went back to the mines? With one leg?’

‘Exactly. And that’s where he found Christianne. Life can be odd – disaster one moment, bliss the next. That’s her take on it, by the way, not mine. A little further maybe?’ I nod towards the distant headland. ‘Then a cream tea?’

We’re back at Evelyn’s bungalow by late afternoon. Twice, she’s been stopped on the street, both times by men well past their sixties. There followed a courtly exchange of kisses, one on each cheek, followed by a companionable pat on the arm and good luck for tonight. After these encounters Evelyn supplied a name and other gossipy details, but I know I’ll never retain all this. Not that it matters. What’s important, I tell myself, is that this little town has settled on Evelyn like the duvet of her dreams. It will keep her snug. It will furnish endless friendships. And who knows, it may even offer more than that.

Back home, she excuses herself to prepare for the evening. She has in mind, she says, a little surprise, a kind of thank you for the festival’s generosity in making the event happen. When I press her for more, she plays coy, telling me she has one last phone call to make. This I recognize as my cue to leave her in peace and I make my way upstairs to my bedroom. The window offers a perfect view of Evelyn’s back garden, but what catches my eye is the figure next door.