Alice was playing on the swing now. The apple blossom was in bud, the new leaves a startling bright green, blocking the view of the road. Connie was drinking the coffee she’d made after lunch. Then Alice called out ‘Hello!’ to someone Connie couldn’t see, and the stranger appeared at the gate. He stopped there, looking in at them. Connie’s first thought was that this was a reporter who had tracked them down. That had been a fear since they’d moved to the valley. The man was young with the easy smile of a natural charmer. Definitely a reporter. Over his shoulder was a rucksack that could contain a camera. Though the knitted hat gave him the look of a rambler, so perhaps he was walking along the river bank.

‘Can I help you?’ Her words were so sharp that Alice, who’d just swung back to the ground, looked up at her, surprised.

He seemed a little shocked too. The smile wavered. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

Not a journo, Connie thought. Journos didn’t apologize. Not even the charming ones. She gave a little wave of her hand, her own apology. ‘You surprised me. We don’t get many visitors.’

‘I’m looking for someone,’ he said. His voice was educated.

‘Yes?’ The caution had returned. Her body was tense, ready to repel him if he asked for her by name or made a move to come through the gate.

‘Mrs Eliot. Veronica Eliot.’

‘Ah.’ She felt relief and curiosity too. What could this man want with Veronica?

‘Do you know her?’

‘Yes,’ Connie said. ‘Of course. She lives in the white house at the end of the lane. Just over the crossroads. You can’t miss it.’ He paused for a moment before turning away and she added: ‘If you’re driving, there’s a lay-by just down the track where you can turn round.’ No reason now not to be helpful, and she was curious. She hadn’t seen a car.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t drive. I came on the bus.’

‘Blimey, that’s brave! Do you hope to get back tonight?’

He smiled. She thought now it was hard to age him. Certainly younger than her, but he could have been anything between eighteen and thirty. She knew Veronica had a grown-up child, a model offspring of course, reading history at Durham. But his friends would surely know where Veronica lived.

‘There is supposed to be a bus back to Hexham in a couple of hours,’ he said uncertainly. ‘And I can get a taxi if all else fails.’

‘Are you a relative?’ She realized this was the first normal conversation she’d had for months and she hoped to prolong it. How pathetic, she thought. That things have come to this!

He hesitated. The simple question seemed to have thrown him. ‘No,’ he said at last. ‘Not exactly.’

‘I don’t think she’s in,’ Connie said. ‘The car wasn’t in the drive when I walked from the village earlier. And I heard that her husband Christopher is working away. Would you like to come in for a cup of tea to wait? If Veronica’s been out for lunch, she’ll be back soon and we’ll see her car pass from here.’