Pip had never heard of a programme called Into the Blue, although if it was on the television in 1983, seven years before she was even born, it was unlikely she would have done. She itched to do a quick Google search, but if Audrey caught her on her phone in shop time she’d be in trouble. Rose wouldn’t care, but Pip knew that shop life ran much more smoothly if she didn’t break any of Audrey’s rules. She would look it up later.

Away in the back room a teaspoon chinked on china as Audrey stirred sweetener into her drink. She would be coming back in to check up on her at any moment.

Pip had too many questions to leave the diary with the rest of the books. She’d take it back to the farm and have a flick through in peace. Then, if it contained anything that might identify the writer, she could bring it back and discuss what to do next with Audrey. If it turned out that the writer was a famous actress then it might even have some value, which would please Audrey no end. And if, as she suspected, it proved to be of very little interest, she would just put it back with the day’s donations and pretend it had only just arrived.

Quickly, she stuffed the diary into a plastic carrier and hid it in her bag, but as she did so she could feel her conscience pricking her. Was it theft to take the diary without paying for it? And what about the thorny issue of reading someone else’s private thoughts? Pip weighed the arguments in her head, but found her integrity to be intact. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, not really. The diary had been given away so the owner clearly wasn’t worried about what happened to it now, and if she was able to identify her, she could always return it. But actually, it was the prospect of spending an evening or two lost in someone else’s life that was too enticing to ignore – anything to escape the horrors of her own. This was the first time Pip had felt anything approaching excitement since the accident, and she liked it.

She began restacking the books in the box. It felt like such a pointless waste of time, but time was all she had. If her London colleagues could only see her now, she thought wryly.

‘How are you getting along with those donations?’ came Audrey’s shrill voice.

Pip jumped guiltily as if Audrey could see straight into her thoughts.

‘I’m working through them now,’ she replied, her smile painted on brightly for Audrey’s benefit. ‘Just the usual stuff. Nothing special.’

Audrey bustled over, looked in one or two of the bin bags with her nose wrinkled. Then she flicked open the lid of the cardboard box and tutted loudly.

‘Books. We’ve no space for more books. I don’t really know why people send them. But then again, I suppose they sell.’