“Yes.”

“But you haven’t the foggiest what he meant.”

“No.”

Honestly. This is the trouble with living in a stately home with great poetic symbols everywhere. If they lived in a normal house with one apple tree and a privet hedge, there’d be none of this hoo-ha.

“OK,” I say firmly. “Suze, you need to find out which tree Owl’s Tower is. Phone your parents, phone his parents, phone your head groundsman—anyone!”

“I already have,” admits Suze. “I’ve left them all messages.”

“So what do we do now?”

“I don’t know. Wait.”

I can’t quite believe this. Basically Suze’s marriage is either over or not, depending on a tree. This is so bloody Tarquin.

Although I suppose it could have been worse. It could have been the plot of a Wagner opera.

Suze gets down from her barstool and starts pacing round on the spot, nibbling her fingers and checking her phone about every two seconds. Her eyes are wild and she’s muttering to herself, “Is it the chestnut? Maybe it’s that big ash.” She’s going to drive herself insane like this.

“Look, Suze.” I try to grab her arm, but miss. “Calm down. There’s nothing you can do now. You need to think of something else. Let’s go and look at the fair. Suze, please,” I beg, making another swipe at her arm. “You’ve had a really stressful time. It’s not good for you. It’s all cortisol and stuff in your veins. It’s poison!”

I learned this at Golden Peace. In fact, I went to a whole series of classes called Limit Your Stress Levels, which would have been really useful if I hadn’t always arrived late after yoga and spent the whole class feeling totally hassled. (I actually think I’d have felt less stressed if I hadn’t gone to the class.)

“OK,” says Suze at last, still pacing. “OK. Maybe I should try to get my mind off things.”

“Exactly! Look, we’ve got ages till we’re on duty in the ceramics tent. Let’s go and find a distraction.”

“Right.” Suze stops pacing, but her eyes are still wild. “You’re right. What shall we do? I wonder if I can borrow a horse. I could enter some events. I’ve never done a rodeo before.”

A rodeo? Is she nuts?

“Er…maybe!” I say warily. “I was actually thinking more like wander round? Look at the displays? They’ve got chickens, you know.”

Suze has always had a soft spot for chickens (which I understand even less than the pig thing). I unfold my guide and I’m about to tell her some of the breeds, when her eyes light up.

“I know.” She clasps hold of my arm and marches me off. “I’ve got it.”

“Where are we going?” I protest.

“You’ll see.”

—

Suze seems so determined, there’s no point arguing. And at least she’s stopped nibbling her fingers like a madwoman. We skirt round all the food tents, wind our way through the livestock arenas, and pass the Creative Village. (We pass it twice, in fact. I think Suze gets a bit lost, not that she’ll admit it.)