Monday started as a promisingly clear late June day, but soon gave way to wet, miserable weather. I was at a loose end as my back had been playing up, an annoying side effect of the pregnancy. I had been concerned when it first began but soon accepted that it wasn’t a sign of anything being wrong, just a symptom of the extra pressure on my pelvis. Nonetheless, it had left me unable to tackle any of the jobs around the house I knew I ought to be doing. I decided to read for a while and settled myself down in the living room with the book Jack had bought – Avoncote Through the Centuries – keeping my laptop to hand in case I felt the need to write any more notes. I had several weeks before I was required to submit my article to the magazine, but was conscious that pregnancy doesn’t always go according to plan, so wanted to do as much as I could when time (and my state of mind) allowed. ‘Never put off until tomorrow …’ was an attitude fostered in me by Auntie Jane.

The wind whistled eerily through the eaves and rain battered the window. I was glad to be snug and safely indoors. I eased myself out of the chair and went upstairs to drape the clothes I had just washed over the clothes horse on the landing. A steady dripping noise stopped me in my tracks. I followed the sound into our bedroom, which overlooked the back of the house, only to discover a large wet patch developing on the beige carpet, close to the window. Looking up, I was alarmed to see brownish water slowly seeping through the ceiling near the exposed beam. Cursing, I fetched the washing-up bowl to catch the offending liquid, and dug out the number of the thatcher that Steve, the barman, had given to Jack.

The man, whose name was Kenny, was out on a job, but promised me that he’d call by later in the afternoon to assess the damage. The thought of the cost filled me with dread, but we’d known the roof needed addressing sooner or later. This had simply forced our hand.

I remained downstairs for most of the afternoon, checking periodically to see how much water had accumulated in the bowl and to empty it out. Thankfully by about 3 p.m., the rain had abated and the leak had almost stopped, but it had left a large damp patch on the ceiling.

True to his word, Kenny rapped at the door at about 4.30 p.m. He was a stocky man, maybe in his mid to late forties, bearded, with wild red hair and a gold hoop earring in one ear. He wore torn dungarees over his broad bare chest and a tool belt slung round his hips. If ever I’d pictured a thatcher, it would have been Kenny personified.