On the high street, she could see a hardware shop called Ponsonby’s between a chemist’s and a haberdasher’s. The only place to park was near the Baptist church, a little walk away. Inside the shop, there were no customers, except for an old sheepdog lapping at a bowl beside the counter. A fellow with white hair came out to greet her in his apron. ‘Hello, dear. What can I help you with?’ he said.

‘I was told that Charlie worked here – Charlie Savigear.’

‘That’s right. He isn’t on today, though. Lucky, with it being so busy.’

She looked about the place, uncertain if he wanted her to laugh. ‘Do you know if he’s at home?’

‘Upstairs, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sorry, I believe he’s out.’

‘Well, do you know what time he might be coming back?’

‘I’m not his secretary, you know.’ The old man sighed and combed his arm-hairs with his fingers. ‘I expect you’ll find him over at the sports ground. He’s been helping out there, building the pavilion.’

‘Is it far from here?’

‘Just round the corner. Maidstone Road. Go left at the church and keep on going for a hundred yards or so.’

‘Thank you. I appreciate it.’

‘Good. Then next time, you can buy a mop or something.’

‘It’s a deal.’ She stooped to pet the dog before she left. ‘I think she’s out of water.’

‘Don’t you worry about her – she’s like a camel. Just tell Charlie I expect him in tomorrow, good and early.’

It was only a short walk and she made sure to take it slowly. The sports ground wasn’t much more than an open field of turf embossed with molehills and a set of holes where goalposts should’ve been. On the far side, a small team of men was gathered at the base of a half-built pavilion. Its walls were up already, but the roof’s anatomy was still exposed and, to her eye, the frame looked asymmetrical. As she got nearer, she saw Charlie. He was carrying a timber joist as though it were a broom. A nubby cigarette was in his lips. It was the mildest afternoon, but he was shining with the sweat of his exertions. He didn’t spot her till she made it to the edges of the site. A man called out to her, ‘You’d best keep out the way, love. We’ve not fixed those beams in yet. I don’t want any falling on you,’ and that made Charlie glance in her direction. Right away, he dumped the timber, patted his hands clean. Walking over, he stubbed out his dog-end in the grass. The sweat was streaking down his forehead when he reached her.

‘What d’you reckon?’ he said, jabbing his thumb back at the pavilion. ‘Should we call the Architectural Review or what?’

‘It’s looking well so far,’ she said. ‘You’re looking well.’

He didn’t seem so certain, pulling at his collar, then his trousers, raking back his hair. ‘You think so? I’ve been meaning to get down the barber’s.’