She understood about some misery being beyond tears. In the hospital she had cried a lot, openly; at Barnhurst she had several times cried in secret. Now she had no tears. She sat on the kitchen stool in a dry daze of despair for a long time. Then, at last, resignation and a sort of courage began to move again. All right. Her memory was still lost, and it was horribly plain that Canon Thorby had no intention of continuing to employ her; but she was still alive and she must be sensible and take herself in hand. She would probably feel better for some food; she’d had nothing since her dinner the previous evening, and she had then been much too excited to eat really heartily. She had seen a little shop on the other side of the Green as the taxi drove past it, and she had some money left. She would go and buy some food.

The woman in the shop actually jumped at the sight of her, and cried:

‘Why, Miss Mayfield! Fancy seeing you! Nobody said . . . And, my, you do look poorly still. The sea air don’t seem . . . Here, sit down, do!’ She came round from behind the counter and pulled a chair with her, and then, with her hands on her hips, stood back and studied Miss Mayfield again. ‘All your lovely hair, too. I always did use to admire your hair. So neat. I nearly grew mine. Still, never mind, it’s growing out nicely – coming curly, too.’

Miss Mayfield managed what she hoped was a friendly smile.

‘It’s cooler this way. Now . . . there are a few things I need.’ She named them, asking for small quantities.

‘Did Berta know you was coming? Did she take your bread and milk?’

Milk didn’t matter; bread did. She added a packet of dry biscuits to her order. The woman began putting all the things in a brown paper bag.

‘That was a terrible thing to happen. Coming so close to poor Wesley Baines, too. Cast a right gloom on the village, that did. And so unfair, when you’d been so brave about saving them sheep. Mr Frisby talk about giving you a medal – you know his way. Still, there’s no doubt you saved him a rare lot of money. To go through all that and then nearly die in your own schoolroom. It was the piano-tuner found you, you know. I reckon he saved your life.’

‘I expect he did,’ Miss Mayfield said warmly. For a moment she was tempted to throw pride and reserve to the winds and to say, Look, I’ve lost my memory, I remember nothing. Tell me everything you know.

The woman was already embarked upon her story, giving it all the drama in which her kind delight.