Mrs Barley’s pristine flowerbeds put ours to shame. Wisteria Cottage had been a rental property for several years before the owners finally decided to sell, and the previous occupants had clearly been averse to horticulture, preferring their borders ‘au naturel’, leaving a forest of weeds and waist-high grass concealing any amount of wildlife. We resolved that our priority was to arm ourselves with shovels and shears and set about creating some sort of order.

The heat that first Saturday was unseasonably oppressive, making our task even more wearisome. Jobie hindered our efforts further by leaping on us playfully. He snapped relentlessly at the butterflies heading for the glorious raspberry-pink refuge of next door’s buddleia.

‘I’m beginning to think we should have hired a digger,’ groaned Jack. ‘Maybe we ought to just lay slabs over the whole bloody lot. This isn’t my idea of fun.’

I prodded him playfully. ‘Don’t be such a misery. We want a nice garden for when the baby comes – it’ll be lovely for him or her to have somewhere to play. Keep going – it’ll all be worth it in the end!’

Damp with sweat, and skin prickling from the brambles and coarse ryegrass, we’d been hacking away for a gruelling couple of hours. Although still only thirteen weeks into my pregnancy, the heat was taking its toll on me and I was starting to flag. Mrs Barley appeared, balancing a tray of home-made biscuits and fresh lemonade on the fence.

‘Some refreshments?’ She spoke softly, with a subtle West Country burr. ‘Gardening’s thirsty work, I know.’

Gratefully accepting the tray, we paused to gulp down the cool liquid. I couldn’t help noticing the fingerless gloves she was wearing, and the old woman obviously realised. She smiled, explaining, ‘I have arthritis, my dear. Even when the weather’s as warm as this, my old hands often still throb and ache. The gloves help a little with the stiffness.’

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.’

‘That’s quite all right. I know it must look a bit odd, especially in this heat, but it’s comfort over style for me these days, I’m afraid!’ She seemed unperturbed, and I was glad that I hadn’t offended her.

Jack raised a thumb. ‘Mmm – these are excellent,’ he said, through a mouthful of crumbs.

Mrs Barley looked pleased. ‘It’s nice to have someone to bake for. I rarely bother these days – no point, now there’s only me. Since Frank’s passing, I don’t do half the things I used to …’ She tailed off wistfully. Her eyes had misted with tears. There was an awkward silence and Jack shot me a discomfited look.

‘I love your summer house,’ I said, attempting to divert her. ‘And the garden’s just beautiful …’