‘The time we remember those who have gone before us.’ She paused, her face clouding for a moment. There was brief silence as she seemed to have lost her train of thought. ‘I’ve several others I’ve made over the years – for Beltane, too – or May Day, as it’s known these days. There are eight festivals in the Wheel of the Year, and I’ve a doll for each, you know.’

Oh yes?’ I had seen the term Wheel of the Year during my research about local folklore, but hadn’t actually made it a focus of my article. Mrs Barley was in full flow now and clearly eager to share the extent of her knowledge.

‘It’s a way of marking the cycle of nature – the sabbats, we call them. The winter solstice, the summer solstice, Ostara in the spring, Mabon in the autumn, and so on. The wheel depicts the birth and death of the seasons.’

‘So, you’re very in tune with nature, then?’

‘Absolutely. Always have been, and it’s given me a focus since Frank’s passing. We owe everything we are to the earth. We come from it and one day we all go back to it. I’m a great believer in the power of talismans, too.’ She seemed to light up from within suddenly. ‘I don’t find it so easy these days with my hands, but I could still make one of my dolls for you if you like – bring you good luck for the baby.’

‘Thank you.’ I felt uncomfortable. Truthfully, I wasn’t keen on the idea of my unborn child having one of these strange little pagan figures created for him or her, but didn’t want to offend Mrs Barley, who was clearly passionate in her belief. I told myself that it was all harmless hokum, but while I found folklore interesting, there was something about symbolic figurines and wiccan tenets that felt slightly macabre.

I sensed a sudden shift in her manner. The intense way she was observing me made me keen to steer the dialogue towards something more prosaic.

We sat drinking tea, made the old-fashioned way, poured through a strainer into china cups. Possibly after all the talk about the little figures and, although I may have felt like it initially, I hadn’t thrown up my hands in abject horror, Mrs Barley had become unusually animated. As was often the case, the topic of conversation turned to Frank. I didn’t mind and was glad that her witchy dolls seemed no longer to be uppermost in her thoughts. I often found myself thinking about Reggie and felt a bit emotional that day anyway, so at least it was a distraction.