‘The very fact of starting a petition would rattle him, surely? And even if we didn’t get many signatures, it would at least be a way of telling the village about Eli’s plight. Even if they won’t give their names, they can put a mark, with “Signature withheld” or some such official words. Like: We, the undersigned, wish to state that . . .’ Kit dried up. ‘We object to the plan to move Mr Eli – what on earth is his surname?’

‘Chadwick. Anyway, there’s only one Eli in the village. Everyone will know who we’re talking about.’

‘Object to plans to move Eli Chadwick from his shepherd’s hut . . . that he’s lived in for ten years – to a council house, against his wishes . . .’

‘. . . threatening the future of the precious village woodland,’ I added.

‘What do you think, Jimmy? If we make a petition, you can help me persuade everyone else to sign it. Will you do that?’ Jimmy’s eager nod helped me decide. At least we’d be doing something.

‘There’s my boy,’ Kit said, ruffling his hair. My brother’s face lit up with the most beautiful smile. He loved Kit as much as I did.

Kit was as good as his word. The very next afternoon he came to the vicarage with a bag containing a clipboard – stolen from his father’s office, he said with a cheeky grin – and several sheets of lined paper. We drew up columns, finalised the wording, and set out to knock on doors.

We met a mixed reception and lots of difficult questions: who owned the land, why was the church so keen to get rid of Eli’s hut, what was the church going to do with the land anyway, and why didn’t I get my father do something about it? He was the vicar after all, they pointed out, not unreasonably. When I explained that it was a committee decision, instigated by Mr Blackman, who was in charge of church financial matters, their countenance changed.

Although they were concerned that Eli might be moved against his will, would it not be better for him in the long run? ‘If only he could be persuaded it’s for the best,’ they said.

‘But the hut is his home, and he’s been there ten years,’ I tried to explain. ‘He doesn’t care about the inconvenience. He loves the woods and the birds. Why can’t he live the rest of his life in the place he loves?’

Jimmy always tried to chip in, too, not always successfully. ‘Eli my friend.’

By six o’clock that evening our optimism was fading. We’d been to fifteen houses and had no signatures at all. It was quite clear: people were afraid of standing up to the Blackness. Half an hour later I’d all but given up, and anyway Kit said it was time to head home for supper.