I should do something. Cough, so that I catch her eye, and make sure I’m inspecting the ice creams when she spots me. But I carry on standing there. And it came to pass in morningtide that James arose from his bed and walked upon the roof of the vicar’s house. And from the roof he saw a man, which greatly disappointed him, but later that same morning he saw the woman privately looking at her reflection in a freezer cabinet, and she was beautiful to—

“Good morning, Ellen,” I blurt out.

She turns around. “Good morning!” Her cheeks go pink, and that’s my fault. Nonetheless she’s smiling. “I was just thinking about my hair . . .”

“You’re permitted,” I say. “I was thinking only about supper. I was after some fish.”

“And I’m standing in your way.” She steps back from the freezer cabinet. “I’m getting a few things for a young girl I’m looking after. She likes food in packets.”

She looks fondly at the contents of her basket, as if the young girl is contained in the things.

“So do I. My son gives me frequent tellings-off.”

She looks up. “You have a son?”

“He’s studying environmental sciences at the University of East Anglia. He’s against packets, on the whole. He’s staying with me just now, so I’m getting a large piece of haddock.”

“Excellent.” Smiling, she glances toward the door of the supermarket. I’m keeping her. She needs to get back to her young girl. I should say goodbye and release her but I can’t just yet.

Go on, Acton. Speak your mind.

“Ellen—perhaps you’d join me one evening next week for a glass of sherry? Tuesday, say? Parishioners permitting.”

I’ve done my best. A steady voice, a warm smile, and—I’m hoping—a relaxed, friendly look in my eyes. If she declines, so be it.

She blinks rapidly. The very becoming pale pink appears once more in her cheeks. “That would be lovely.” She opens her bag. “I haven’t got your phone number . . .”

“Ask Althea,” I suggest, my heart singing.

“Do you know, I’d rather not.” She looks up—her eyes sparkle. “Sometimes I’m glad my friends are so attentive and caring. But not all the time.”

She writes my number on a slip of paper. We leave the shop together and go out into the sunny square. She swings herself up into her Land Rover and drives off with a wave.

Tom lopes up, bearing a bulging carrier bag. He nods at my purchases.

“Did you get the fish?”

I slap my hand to my head. “I completely forgot.”

He grins. “Chrissake, Dad.”

I give him a level stare. “Enough of the ‘Chrissake.’ Have some respect.”

He falls silent, walks by my side back into the supermarket, selects the fish. In the checkout queue he says, “Sorry.”