Taking my hand and placing an arm around Giles, she steered us both into what would, in his house, have been the living room, but which in hers was a long through-room heavy with lace. There were lace curtains, lace antimacassars, lace doilies and, the pièce de résistance, a long lace tablecloth covering a mahogany dining table positioned in the centre of the room. On it were a couple of large ceramic platters, bearing cold meats and cheese respectively, together with plates of varying pattern and size, laden with breads and savoury biscuits. Centre stage were two pale-green, gold-rimmed serving dishes, piled high with cherry tomatoes – so high, in fact, that I wondered whether cocktail sticks or glue might be playing some part in holding it all together.

Tearing my eyes away from the tomato mountains, I scanned the room, estimating a gathering of around thirty, some of whom I recognised as nodding acquaintances from my Monday-to-Friday walks to the bus stop. Heads turned as we entered and hands were raised in greeting but, to my relief, there was no pause in the general conversation.

‘How delicious, June,’ said Giles, gesturing towards the dining table and then rubbing his hands together. ‘I do love a nice tomato.’

‘Philip at the greengrocer’s gave them to me,’ she said. ‘They’re closed tomorrow for a staff treat-day and he said they’d go soft over the weekend. Do help yourself, and to the wine over there.’ She indicated a lace-draped sideboard, on which sat a dozen or so wine glasses, plus a large number of bottles, to which June now added our own. ‘There’s white wine in the kitchen, as usual, so help yourself to that. Giles can pour you a glass, Edith, while I show you to Stan.’ And with that, she once again took my hand and pulled me towards the garden end of the room.

I glanced a little anxiously over my shoulder at Giles. I hadn’t anticipated being separated from him quite so soon. ‘Red would be great,’ I said. ‘No need to disappear into the kitchen on my behalf.’

His response was to point and silently laugh at me before, to give him his due, immediately reaching for a bottle of red.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen, but this is Edith, who isn’t Giles’s cousin,’ said June a little breathlessly, as we came to a halt next to a group of three men, one of whom I judged to be in his eighties, and the other two their mid-sixties. June gently pushed one of them aside and, as a pair, we eased our way into the circle.