‘Quiet, Sarge,’ Eli commanded, and the dog slunk back into the shadow of the hut. ‘Take no notice of ’im, ’e’s a real softie once he git ta know you.’ He spoke in that soft Suffolk accent I was slowly learning to interpret. ‘This little lady summat to do with you, laddie?’

‘He’s my brother.’

The dog raised its head and gazed at me with yellow eyes, still growling quietly.

‘You’re that new vicar’s kiddies, ain’t ya? What’re your names, my friends?’

‘I’m Molly, and this is Jimmy.’

‘And I’m Eli,’ the man said. ‘Short for Elijah the prophet, though if I could tell the future, we’d all be rich.’ He chuckled with a deep bronchitic rattle. ‘My folks was strict Chapel,’ he added, as though that explained everything. ‘Anyways, you is most welcome to my ’umble abode on this fine day. Can I get you summat? A cuppa perhaps? I’ve just made a fresh brew. Maybe I could find a biscuit too.’

As he disappeared into the darkness of the shed, the dog growled again, more menacingly this time. ‘Thank you, Mr Eli, but we ought to be on our way,’ I said, grabbing Jimmy’s arm. ‘C’mon, we should go.’

But the word ‘biscuit’ had worked its magic on my brother. He pulled free, climbed the steps and sat down firmly on the bench. When Eli re-emerged, Jimmy accepted a mug of tea and immediately began to sip it, giving little grunts of pleasure.

‘Go on, try it. It’s sweetened with honey,’ Eli said, holding a mug out to me, using his other hand to steady his tremor.

The mug didn’t look that clean, but good manners wouldn’t allow me to refuse and I took a tentative sip. It was delicious: sweet and aromatic, nothing like the bitter brown liquid Mrs D brewed at home.

I began to relax, a little. Here in the woods I saw Eli the gravedigger through new eyes. The old brown tweed topcoat, tied at the waist with string, blended perfectly with the colours of the woodland. The long white beard seemed to give him an air of wisdom. Given a red suit, he might have passed for a scruffy Father Christmas.

He returned inside and came back with a tin that turned out to contain flapjacks. ‘Little treat for me visitors,’ he said, offering them to us.

It had been a long time since breakfast, and hunger overcame any qualms.

‘Here, ease your legs, lassie,’ he said, producing a curious-looking footrest. ‘Thass an old milking stool. Them three legs is designed for rough ground. Gew on, try it.’