Work was in full swing when we arrived, and I asked what needed doing. ‘Prayer books for young Jim, please,’ one said. ‘And you were so good at the ironing last time. I’m sorry it’s a steamy sort of job on a day like this.’ I didn’t mind at all; in this weather the church was one of the coolest places to be.

I was alone in the vestry, spraying and ironing surplices while listening with half an ear to the gossip being exchanged between the ladies who were sweeping, dusting and arranging flowers in the main church, when my ears suddenly tuned into their conversation.

‘Shocking, ain’t it? Turfing him out of that hut, after all these years?’

‘But he’s an old boy now. Losing it a bit, they say.’

‘Wouldn’t he be better off in a nice warm council house with all mod cons?’

‘It ain’t right, letting him live in the woods at his age.’

‘What harm’s he doing to anyone? Live and let live, I says.’

I felt an urge to rush out and ask everyone to step in and support Eli. Many of their families had lived here for generations. They knew him better than any incomers, like Blackman or Pa. But as I dithered, the first speaker lowered her voice to a whisper, so that I had to strain to hear.

‘But who’s going to stand up for him?’

‘It’s a ruddy scandal, if you ask me.’

‘It’s you-know-who, of course.’

‘Wants to get his mitts on that land himself, I’ll be bound.’

‘And what’s the vicar doing about it then?’ My heart seemed to stop. I heard the others shushing her, imagining nudges and fingers to lips as they pointed in the direction of the vestry – and me.

How easily this kind of rumour could get out of hand, and Pa’s reputation called into doubt. Surely the information should be out in the open, not being whispered behind backs? I continued ironing until the job was done, but my head was filled with so many questions it was a miracle nothing got scorched again.

There was a meeting of the Church Management Committee at the vicarage on Monday, and Pa was fidgety, unable to settle to anything. Mrs D had laid out a cold supper that evening, and he pushed the food around his plate like chess pieces, barely eating a thing. There was some leftover blancmange to finish up too, usually a favourite, but Pa excused himself from the table saying he needed to tidy the dining room, even though Mrs D had already hoovered and dusted, leaving it spotless.