Mrs D had already told us about Miss Calver. Apparently she’d enjoyed a distinguished career as a newspaper journalist, even having reported from the field hospitals in France during the First World War. What she didn’t tell us, but was common knowledge around the village, was that Miss Calver sought to drown her wartime horrors in a glass of whisky, or three. Despite this, she bustled about the village with the air of someone always late for a deadline, and drove her little Austin Seven along the country lanes at such a lick that people had to leap into ditches to avoid being run over.

‘Your father tells me you’re a writer,’ she said, downing her glass of sherry in a single sip and taking another from my tray without a hint of hesitation.

I stuttered something about liking to write stories.

‘You must keep it up – keep it up, my girl,’ she said, downing the second glass before taking out a cigarillo and lighting it with a large tin-metal lighter. ‘That’s the only way to get better at writing.’

I was about to ask about her experiences in journalism when Pa appeared and whisked her away. He’d already told me he wanted to buttonhole her about becoming editor of the parish newsletter, which he was determined to revive. I’d already offered to help with it, and the prospect of getting to know Miss Calver better made the thought even more appealing.

When they came to leave, Mrs Waddington took my hand. Her hold was so limp it was like tangling with a piece of wet seaweed. ‘It was charming to meet you, my dear Molly,’ she said. ‘You simply must come to the Hall and we can tell you all about its history – won’t we, Kit?’ She turned to her son, beside her. ‘You can take her on the lake, perhaps? Show her the islands?’

A lake? With islands? It sounded so impossibly like Swallows and Amazons that my imagination took hold in an instant. Could it really be true? ‘That sounds wonderful,’ I managed to gasp.

‘It would be my pleasure,’ Kit said. It was such a quaint, old-fashioned phrase, and as he said it he dipped his head in a very slight bow, as though he was in a period play. A curious character, I thought, unlike any boy I’d ever met before.

Afterwards, as we were washing up, I asked Mrs D about the Waddingtons. ‘What do they do, to live in such a grand house?’

‘Inherited money, of course.’ She tapped the side of her nose, confidentially. ‘Her brother was heir to the estate but he died in the war so it came to her and, ever since that, her husband’s been lording it about like he owns the place. Not that he’s here much – spends most of his time in London, they say. Stockbroker or something.’