‘You’re not familiar with this part of the country?’ she asked.

‘No. I’m standing in for my brother-in-law, time he take his holiday.’

The sign-post said ‘Walwyk’. It also said ‘Renham’ and ‘Catermarsh’. Neighbouring villages; perhaps she knew them. But the names were meaningless. Still, she thought, lighting off disappointment, painted words were not like people; when she saw someone she knew, saw the bed she had slept in, the school she had taught in, then surely the miracle would happen.

The country was flat and uninteresting until they crossed a high bridge; then it became beautiful. And the next village was so extremely picturesque that even the taxi-driver said in a surprised and grudging voice:

‘I never expected to see such a pretty place in these parts. Ugly country, I call this. I’m from Wiltshire myself. Now, where do we make for?’

She had never visualized that terrible question having to be asked; she was so sure that before it could arise she would have got her bearings.

‘We must ask. Ask somebody where does Miss Mayfield live.’

Again she was lucky. The postman, who never reached Walwyk much before midday, was cycling along. The taxi-driver braked and called:

‘Hi, mate. Which house for Miss Mayfield?’

‘Round the Green, far as you can go. The one with railings and some birds cut out of bushes. You can’t miss.’

‘Thanks.’ Moving forward again, he said, ‘They always say that.’

This was one occasion when the prophecy was true. The house he described was unmistakable. Miss Mayfield stared at it avidly and was again disappointed. It recalled nothing. It was a handsome little house and gave the impression that within it some prim lady who had known better days eked out her small means by taking the village schoolmistress to live with her.

She asked the man how much she owed him, and after a moment of frowning calculation he said thirty-three and sixpence. As he turned at the end of the cul-de-sac and drove away, she opened the gate and went towards the door. On the key ring in her bag there was probably a key which fitted this door, but she had been away a long time and was not expected; it seemed more polite to ring the bell. She rang it, bracing herself to face somebody whom she ought to know. This was the crucial test.

Nobody answered the bell, and as she put her finger on it again, a pleasant, ringing voice behind her said:

‘You won’t get an answer, I’m afraid. I saw the cab and hurried out to tell you before it left. Miss Mayfield is on holiday.’

She was a good-looking young woman, wearing linen slacks, a sleeveless blouse and rope-soled sandals which somehow struck a foreign note.

Complete stranger.

I don’t know her.

She doesn’t know me.