‘I haven’t a clue. Jack mentioned it to her last time he showed up, but she assumed it was the gardener. I’ll try to snap him on my phone if he turns up again. Just in case.’

Lucy stayed for another half-hour or so. The excitement of the man’s appearance soon forgotten, we chatted about the joys of pregnancy and the best creams for preventing stretchmarks; fairly mundane stuff. Soon she had to take Alfie home for lunch and his afternoon nap.

‘Thanks very much for these,’ she said with a grin, holding the pot of olives aloft. ‘I’m looking forward to tucking into them later! I expect I’ll see you at the antenatal clinic – do you go on Wednesdays?’

‘Yes. I don’t have to go this week, though. My next appointment will be my twenty-week scan, next Friday.’

‘Ooh exciting. Are you going to ask what you’re having?’

I shook my head. Jack and I had debated this, as he was keen to find out, but I was adamant that I didn’t want to know the sex of the baby. It felt like having a beautifully wrapped present but already knowing what was inside.

‘Want a surprise package, eh? Don’t blame you. Well, I daresay I’ll see you at the clinic at some point, if not before. I developed gestational diabetes with Alfie so they’re keeping tabs on me and I’m there every week now, until the big event.’ She took out her phone. ‘Anyway, give me your number and I’ll text you – you can come to mine next time.’

We swapped details and I showed her to the door. She nodded in the direction of Mrs Barley’s cottage as she stepped outside. ‘Hey, maybe she’s got a fella on the sly – you never know …’

Suddenly the door to the old woman’s cottage opened and she appeared, almost as if she had been waiting for us. I cringed, hoping she hadn’t overheard what Lucy had said.

‘Oh, hello, Stina. You’ve had visitors, I see.’ She beamed at Alfie. ‘What a dear little boy.’ She leaned forwards, her gloved palms resting on the front of her thighs. ‘And what might your name be, young man?’

Alfie sought the safety of his mother’s legs and peeped out warily from behind them.

‘My name is called Alfie,’ he said shyly.

‘Well, that’s a lovely name. I’ve been baking today. Would you like a fairy cake, Alfie? They’ve got icing and rainbow sprinkles on!’

Alfie nodded vigorously and Mrs Barley disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with two small cupcakes in a waxed paper bag. ‘One for you; one for Mummy.’ She smiled broadly and turned to Lucy. ‘They do love fairy cakes, the little ones, don’t they?’

Lucy nodded and thanked her, shooting me an uneasy sideways glance.