‘So you are the young lady of the house? Welcome to Wormley. I’m sure you will all be very happy here. We’re certainly delighted to have a new vicar. It’s been too long since the last one left,’ he said.

No one seemed keen to talk about the ‘previous incumbent’ – the phrase Pa used – but Mrs D told us that the poor man had gone slowly mad and started selling off the church silver. I’d found the tale utterly thrilling and even began to write a story about it. My first line was: The goblet glittered in the firelight, luring him into its secrets. I got stuck on whether or not ‘its’ should have an apostrophe, and never carried on.

‘What are your favourite subjects at school, Miss Goddard?’ Mrs Blackman asked. Despite the strangely fixed hairdo she seemed pleasant enough, so I decided to oblige, rather exaggerating my love of literature and history, particularly medieval myths and legends.

‘Then we simply must get you an invitation to Wormley Hall,’ her husband interrupted. ‘It has such a splendid history: Queen Elizabeth stayed there at least a couple of times. We’re such good friends of the Waddingtons, aren’t we, my dear?’ His eyes darted past me, scanning the room. ‘In fact, I’m rather surprised they aren’t here today.’

‘That would be lovely,’ I said, trying to edge away. He had a tendency to stand closer than felt entirely comfortable, and even the sherry fumes could not conceal the sourness of his breath.

‘And where is that little brother of yours?’

‘Probably upstairs. He’s not fond of large gatherings.’

‘Is there something . . .’ He paused. ‘Erm, not quite right with him?’

‘He is perfectly well, thank you,’ I snapped. Surely he knew it was rude to draw attention to people’s differences?

He held up a hand. ‘Oh dear. I seem to have struck a nerve.’

‘Not at all, Mr Blackman,’ I said. ‘But if you will forgive me, I’d better carry on with my rounds.’ Before turning on my heel, I whispered, ‘And by the way, you’ll have noticed that we don’t light the pink candle till the week before Christmas.’

It was a petty little victory, barely worth a second’s thought but, as we were to learn, Mr Blackman hated to be wrong-footed. And he could hold a grudge for years.

On the other side of the room, near the window, ladies in Sunday hats encircled Pa with upturned faces, apparently hanging on his every word. He must have said something amusing that made them chortle, and perhaps for the first time I saw my father as they did: a tall, slim man with dark-blond hair thinning only slightly at the crown, a broad smile, crinkly blue eyes and a strong chin. He was, I realised now, actually rather handsome for an old man of forty-something. Quite a catch. Hence the girlish giggles.