The girl’s name, I had learned from Judy, was Lucy. I suspect that Judy was a little concerned that I appeared not to know anyone my own age in the area and she was hoping that we would hit it off. Lucy had a lively toddler, Alfie, and another on the way, although her bump being much larger than mine, I suspected the birth must be fairly imminent.

Spotting the olives, her mouth fell open. ‘Oh my God, I didn’t know they sold those. I love smoked olives.’ She looked pointedly at my stomach and grinned. ‘Better than coal, eh! I know some people have really weird cravings.’

I glanced down at myself and laughed, realising that my leggings accentuated my neat little mound. I was almost five months into the pregnancy now, but still hardly showing – or so I’d thought.

Alfie was tugging at her arm, his blue eyes bright. ‘Sweeties, Mummy?’

‘No, darling, they’re not sweeties. You wouldn’t like them.’ His little face fell. ‘Sweeties are very popular,’ she told me, with a wink.

Lucy’s voice was not unlike mine. It had been a surprise to find that the local accent was quite similar to my own Birmingham twang. I had wrongly (and ignorantly) assumed that everyone living in the countryside tended to have the stereotypical ‘country bumpkin’ lilt, but many people from the Stratford area seemed to speak with a familiar, if rather less broad, Midlands inflection. I found it warm and rather comforting.

‘Would you like some of the olives?’ I offered. ‘I do love them, but it’ll take me weeks to plough through this lot. I can put a few in a container for you, if you want to come back to the house with me. And I’m sure I can find something for Alfie, too – I don’t think we’ve got any sweets, but Mrs Barley baked us some lovely biscuits the other day.’

Lucy seemed pleased. I waited while she bought a few groceries and we wandered back up the road together to Wisteria Cottage. As we walked through the gate, within seconds of being released from Lucy’s grip, Alfie had strayed into Mrs Barley’s garden and, to my horror, trampled across the beautiful lupins that lined the path and onto the immaculate lawn. Lucy cursed under her breath and hurriedly caught him by the arm. She dragged him back onto our side, glancing anxiously up at Rose Cottage as she did so. Next door’s curtain twitched and I noticed the old woman peering from the edge of the window. She glared in Lucy’s direction, then saw me looking and promptly withdrew from sight.

‘Oops,’ said Lucy as we went into the house. ‘That won’t have gone down well.’

‘Kids will be kids.’ I shrugged. ‘No permanent damage done.’ But I winced at the thought of Mrs Barley’s reaction. Her garden was her pride and joy.