I relate the details. “I happened to meet Ellen Parr this morning,” I continue, relieved to find that I manage to say this quite normally. “With Lucy Horne. They were out in Ellen’s Land Rover. The three of us, we blocked off all the doorways in Church Walk. I must say, I found Ellen to be extremely . . .” I struggle for an adjective. “Extremely practical.”

What a ludicrous thing to say. Lady Brock scrutinizes me with very old eyes and the merest suspicion of a smile.

“Oh, Ellen’s awfully good in floodwater. It’s all that time she spent with dear Selwyn, getting logs out of millraces and leats and whatnot. She goes striding about in those—”

“In those long boots, yes.” I knock back the rest of my whiskey. “Anyway, I was thinking that, in a month or so—I’ll have to do some serious cleaning beforehand—that I might have a housewarming party.”

“Splendid idea! Would you like any help with the guest list?”

“Really,” I say, “that would be most kind.”

“Absolute pleasure,” she says huskily.

As I leave she calls after me. “Oh, by the way—was it Edith’s?”

“Sorry?”

“That silly scarf. Was it Edith Phelps’s?”

I realize with a jolt that the scarf is still at the vicarage.

“No, and I should have given it back to you yesterday, on my way home from Redwood House. I beg your pardon, it slipped my mind. I’ll drop it off before Evensong tonight.”

“Ah, Evensong. Absolute ages since I’ve been.”

She sounds wistful. Surely someone can bring her.

“One can only impose so much on one’s friends,” she says, reading my mind.

“Lady Brock—”

“Althea.”

“Althea. I’ll bring the scarf and pick you up for Evensong. Quarter to seven?”

I drive back to the vicarage, the single whiskey pleasantly dispersing around my chilled frame, fairly distracted by the remembered sight of Ellen taking a sandbag from me and setting it in place. She did it in the same way every time, in one single lithe turning bending motion.

Unconsciously beautifully.

Bailey squirms with joy at the sight of me, peeing by way of celebration all over the Hampshire Chronicle of 14th March 1969. I put him outside and clear up, then divest myself of my waterproofs. Only then, hanging them in the hall, do I notice an envelope on the doormat bearing a muddy footprint—mine. Even before I pick it up I see my name in Tom’s familiar squared-off capitals.