From Shetland, With Love

Book 1: From Shetland, With Love

by Erin Green

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

When Jemima loses her beloved grandfather, keeping his allotment alive seems like an ideal way to feel close to him. Finally Melissa has the allotment she's been longing for to distract her while her husband works away – even if it is chest-high in weeds. But when she looks for help in the wrong place, she finds she's the hottest topic of gossip. For Dottie, her allotment and part-time job of 'a little light dusting' at Lerwick Manor keeps a spring in her 80-year-old step – and her ears open for secrets. Though generations apart, these three women are about to find a common bond in a newfound passion and that true friendship can grow anywhere.

Release date: May 27, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One

Wednesday 31 March

Jemima

My palms are clammy, my breathing erratic and there’s a pain developing deep inside my chest. My anxiety grows with each passing minute. I must focus and breathe; I can’t lose face in front of these family members. We’ve never been close. They know nothing of my current situation so I can do without their empty words or fussing, should I feel lightheaded or, even, cry.

Sadly, I belong to a family of liars. Or people who ‘tell fibs’, as my mum used to say. Honest, I do. A tiny flaw in our bloodline where the variation has resulted in a spectrum of individuals who frequently negotiate and twist the value of the truth.

I’m far from perfect, but I’m truthful. We all tell the odd porky-pie to sidestep a problematic situation. Such as your best friend asking, ‘Does my bum look big in this?’ when it’s kinder to mellow your answer than ruin her self-confidence. But my family are different, very different.

I glance sideways at my aunt and uncle, my mother’s older siblings, looking alike in frame and features in their black attire: together with two female cousins, they are seated next to me and making a line of five upon hard-backed chairs staring about the dingy office of Baxter, Baxter and Smyth of Lerwick, Shetland. The aged Mr Smyth sits before us carefully reading the legal document to himself prior to sharing.

How many lies have been told within these panelled walls? Diluted shades of the truth pioneered from this legal office?

I’m not comfortable. I awkwardly shift position, attempting to alleviate the numbness in my left leg caused by restraining my knee from touching the shin of my younger cousin, Pippa. I could move my chair a little to the right – there’s plenty of space – but I know such an action will be examined later for a hidden meaning, and incorrectly deciphered.

During my twenty-eight years, I’ve endured plenty of deciphering, given my likeness to the Button family, my father’s side. His gene pool supplied olive skin, dark glossy hair and a curvy frame, unlike the Quinn family who resemble the archetypal Scandinavians long-present here in Shetland: freckled, with blonde hair and pale eyes.

Only Grandpop could have occupied a seat to my right, extending our ‘honesty’ spectrum. Sadly, we buried him just under an hour ago. Right now, we should be drinking sweet tea and mingling with old acquaintances whilst attempting to balance a paper plate of buffet food in the back room of the Douglas Arms. Sadly, we aren’t a typical family, so we’re waiting to hear the Last Will and Testament of Thomas Quinn, a true gent and the smiliest person who ever graced my world.

My portly uncle coughs; an attempt to hasten the proceedings.

I can imagine their reaction if I’d opted for a simple church service and a burial just nine months ago, when my own mother succumbed to cancer. They’d provided little comfort or appreciation of my efforts to hold it together emotionally as I’d circled her wake, thanking people for attending. The Quinns even blanked my father for showing his final respects despite their divorce, fifteen years earlier. They probably never forgave his decision to stop living a lie within an unhappy marriage. Though, afterwards, they welcomed his decision to return to Glasgow, from where he’d arrived unexpectedly one summer during my mother’s teenage years. The Quinns forget he was totally selfless in accepting that my permanent home was Shetland; he could have caused my mum untold upset in a custody battle. I’d have hated leaving Shetland, I’m an islander through and through. My dad’s no different now; he wouldn’t cause anyone pain, least of all me – his only child.

The truth is that last September was the final set of lies the Quinns have fed me; despite their promises of ‘we won’t become strangers’ and ‘you’ll always be one of us’ I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of them since. Only Grandpop kept in touch with ‘his little pumpkin’ during our weekly brew-ups.

I sincerely hope Grandpop’s friends at Happy Days sheltered housing complex are raising a glass or three in the community’s hub while I sit here, wriggling in my seat to improve the circulation in my leg.

I can sense their urgency for news of material possessions. I don’t need anything. Grandpop provided me with enough childhood memories and smiles to last for the rest of my days. Inheriting his sense of fun is enough for me, though others will disagree. They’ll find very little at his sheltered accommodation, considering he sold most of his possessions when downsizing from the family home he once shared with Gran. He wasn’t materialistic by nature. The man was thrifty through and through, nothing was ever wasted; he’d purchased nothing new since the millennium, and yet he never went without a thing.

‘Is everything in order?’ asks my uncle, presuming a duty as head of the family. His sister shuffles in her seat but doesn’t comment, seconding his role.

‘Quite, quite,’ mutters Smyth, looking up before clearing his throat. ‘It is very simple; the late Mr Quinn has divided his assets into three equal portions to be received by his children.’ He stares along the line of faces before continuing. ‘I’m led to believe one daughter is recently deceased?’

Four heads nod simultaneously. I remain still.

‘As a result of his instructions, the remaining portion will not be divided between the surviving issue but be received by her offspring. I believe that’s you.’ Smyth stares directly at me.

‘Yes, m-me,’ I stutter, fully aware that other faces don’t appear happy.

‘There are no other parties named in the will, all personal possessions are to be divided as the family see fit. You will each receive a paper copy in due course. Given the nature of Mr Quinn’s affairs and accommodation agreement, I think it will be a matter of weeks before we can safely complete his final wishes. Any questions?’

‘Jemima gets her mother’s third, and there’s no mention of us?’ asks Pippa, clearly surprised to receive nothing.

‘That’s correct. A provision was made for you, should your parent be deceased at the time of Mr Quinn’s death,’ explains Smyth.

‘Well, that’s that then. Thank you, Mr Smyth . . . we’ll be on our way,’ says my uncle, slapping his hands down upon his thighs before standing tall. He stares down at his daughter, Callie, demanding she follow; she’s in her early thirties and isn’t following silent orders.

‘Jemima inherits as much as my father then?’ asks Callie, her mouth tightly pursed.

‘That’s correct.’

‘So, Mima, what’s your thinking?’ asks Pippa, her wide-eyed expression addressing me.

‘My thinking?’ I’m stunned. Firstly, by the nature of Grandpop’s wishes, and secondly, by my cousin’s outspoken cheek.

‘I honestly thought he’d left you each a small bequest, but given the instructions – and Jemima’s status as an only child – I don’t see what we can do,’ mutters my aunty.

‘Thank you,’ I say, grateful that one relative understands this was not of my making.

‘Don’t thank me. If it were me, I’d be splitting my share with the other cousins, but that’s me. Don’t feel you have to.’

I’m gobsmacked. I stare at four woeful expressions turned in my direction.

‘Anyway, all that remains is this . . . an envelope addressed solely to Miss Button,’ says Smyth, offering a white envelope across the desk.

‘For me?’

‘Yes, it isn’t included in his Last Will and Testament but it has been delivered to the offices as a private request from your grandfather. Here, take it.’

I rise, retrieve the offered item and quickly sit back down.

‘This is taking the piss!’ says Callie, standing up and collecting her handbag.

I slide my thumb under the sealed edge, removing two keys on a wire loop: one a Yale, the other a padlock key.

‘What are these for?’ I ask, showing an open palm to the family, who shake their heads.

‘I have the keys to his accommodation, so who knows?’ says my aunt, tapping her own handbag.

‘I believe they’re for his allotment plot. They were delivered a week ago, with the instruction that they be given to you,’ says Smyth, clearing his desk of our paperwork.

‘I can explain. I used to pay his annual fees as part of his birthday present. I’ll make sure they’re returned,’ I say, pleased to shed some light on the envelope.

We shuffle from the dingy office into the reception area before saying our goodbyes. Our parting interaction is frosty as numerous lies spill forth: ‘it’s been good to see you’, ‘we’ll be in touch soon’ and ‘nip around, any time’.

And that’s it. Which feels so wrong. A small funeral, a ten-minute wait, a mere five-minute address and a few quarrelsome remarks put to bed an individual’s life – a man who lived, loved and laughed so heartily whilst gracing this earth for eight decades before succumbing to old age and peacefully passing away in his sleep, twelve days ago.

Dottie

The morning sun is shining bright as I cross the stable yard and unlock the side entrance of Lerwick Manor. The green-painted door scrapes upon the cracked tiles, as always, on opening and closing. It needs a fraction shaving from the bottom edge; it’ll get done one day. It feels like my private entrance. Others rarely use this route, preferring to use the main doors.

Once through the door, I kick off my boots and slip into my comfy ‘house shoes’, as I call them, waiting for me just inside, where I left them. It’s not that Ned insists, more that I don’t approve of bringing the outdoor mud in as it’s me that’ll have to clean it up. There’s enough dust floating about this place without traipsing Shetland soil into the carpets.

The manor is my second home; it shouldn’t be, but it is. I’ve been visiting here since I was six years of age, when my mother was head cook and my father head gardener. I came as a package deal, aged fifteen, once I’d left school and refused to find secretarial work, which was all the rage back in the late fifties. It was the fashion, back then, to desert your roots and hop over to the mainland to seek a new life in the big cities of Edinburgh or Aberdeen. I simply wanted to follow my kin to the big house, though not many families were still taking on staff after the war, except the Campbells. My mum always said they cared about us local folk, had a traditional way about them and would always follow their own moral compass when it came to looking after staff. They didn’t hesitate, allowing me to work in the kitchen alongside my mother. I’d never have coped away from Shetland; there’s an invisible thread running deep within which tethers me to these beautiful islands. From cradle to grave – with everything in between – here’s where I’m meant to be.

I nip through the aged kitchen, no longer used but still fully functional, with a coal range and water pump, along the warren of narrow tiled corridors to hang my coat up in the boot room. Purely habit, nothing that Ned insists upon. To be fair, there is nothing that Ned insists upon, apart from me noting my hours in ‘the book’ I’ve conveniently placed in the boot room, open upon a hard-backed chair, complete with a working pen.

Nobody else uses it, I’m the only one. I’ve progressed from young scullery girl to an octogenarian who keeps her hand in with a bit of light dusting, three days a week. I get to choose which days, but all the same I never work on Mondays. Ned thinks I don’t know that the other cleaning team visit every Monday to blitz the place from top to bottom. I assume they’re given strict instructions not to touch, clean or disturb any ornament or mantel that’s within my reach, other than the carpets. I haven’t vacuumed in fifteen years, yet there’s no accumulation of dirt underfoot. As if I wouldn’t notice. At my age, I can’t lug the vacuum up and down grand staircases to titivate eleven empty bedrooms.

Donning my cleaning pinny, I sign in, before heading for the main hallway and the grand staircase, under which is possibly the poshest cleaning cupboard in Shetland. Home to my neat shelving unit of polish cans, beeswax and yellow dusters; I use very little else, other than elbow grease, white vinegar and lemon juice. You can keep your new-fangled air fragrances with micro-sized abrasive technology that ruins our planet. When I clean, I want clean. Not some smeary, chemical film rubbed upon the surface of every mahogany or oak table, dulling the shine. I want to see my face in it; likewise, so does Ned.

I stand beneath swathes of sumptuous burgundy velvet competing for ceiling space alongside the drapery of Black Watch tartan, representing the Campbell clan. Each swag of fabric encircles the ginormous chandelier which dominates the central drop of the grand staircase. I tut most mornings on viewing them; they’re nothing more than giant duster-catchers which I’d gladly see replaced, as they’re only cleaned every five years. I climb the grand staircase, armed with a feather duster, polish can and yellow cloths. I can’t help but admire the portraiture smiling down from the walls: the elaborate attire, gentle smiles and majestic poses of generations gone by. They feel like family; I know each of them so well. I enter the first-floor lounge and begin the diligent task of lifting each ornament from every surface, to spray and wipe, before replacing it. There’s silence all around, but not in my head; I recall the chatter, the giggling, even the raised voices of yesteryear, as I move about each room removing this week’s collection of dust. I sense I’m the first person to enter some rooms since I was last here. Ned hardly uses the manor as he should, simply rattling around a handful of rooms, but I still polish every week; I have a routine which I stick to. I’m methodical.

‘Morning, Dottie, I didn’t hear you come in,’ says Ned, poking his head around the edge of the doorway. ‘Any chance of a brew?’

For thirty-five years old, he looks tired today; his hazel eyes aren’t sparkling, his complexion is sallow, and he hasn’t had the haircut he mentioned yesterday. Why he leaves it longer than he should is beyond me; the salt ’n’ pepper flecks appearing at his temples look quite distinguished against the dark brown when neatly trimmed, but unkempt and uncared for when longer. It amazes me how much he looks like his dear father, with that cleft chin and chiselled cheekbones; the Campbell men have always inherited a strong jawline.

‘Morning, Ned, as quiet as a mouse, that’s me. Sure, I’ll bring it along to you,’ I say, eager to please.

He’s technically my boss, but in reality a dear friend. I still see him as a peerie lad running about the landing in shorts and a school cap – not that he’d appreciate my vivid recall.

‘Here you go!’ I say, minutes later, nudging open his office door and carrying a tray complete with tea and biscuits. I pride myself on not slopping half a mug’s worth upon the tray. Why he chooses this office when the study and library downstairs are resplendent and more suitable for his needs baffles me. Though, given his choice of modern furniture and minimalistic style, I suppose the lower rooms seem stuffy and claustrophobic.

‘You are a star!’ he mutters, getting up from his desk to join me at the conference table, where I’ve deposited the tea tray. ‘Are you staying for one?’

‘No, I’ve got plenty to do on the first landing.’ I never hang about; likewise, he has plenty to do running the estate single-handed. ‘I want to revisit the allotment while the rain holds off.’

‘Has the spare plot opposite yours been assigned yet?’

‘Number eighteen? Not yet. You know how it is with the council, they get notified, receive the keys, and it seems to take ages before they offer it up. It’s a right state, mind you. The new people will need strong backs to work that plot towards tidy.’

‘Are you still helping out each morning with the chickens on Old Tommy’s plot?’ he asks, stirring his tea.

‘I am, though I expect it’ll draw to an end soon. His funeral’s this morning, so the young lassie should receive the keys later today.’ I’d offered to play my part, purely as a decent friend and a committee member of Lerwick Allotment Association. But if the truth were known, I’ll be glad to return to my usual routine. Which doesn’t involve chickens.

‘I’m sure it’s appreciated,’ says Ned, grabbing the plate of biscuits and returning to his paper-filled desk. ‘Despite the family’s refusal for his closest friends to attend the service.’

‘Mmmm, we’ll see. I just hope she appreciates the allotment that Tommy created. He loved that plot of earth – that and his obsession with noting the weather details in his peerie book. Let’s hope she enjoys it too,’ I say, heading for the door, before adding, ‘and, Ned, get that haircut you mentioned.’

‘That bad, hey?’ He smiles as I frantically nod. ‘I’ll do it today, I promise.’

Chapter Two

April

High: 9°

Low: 4°

Daylight: 14.5 hours

Rain: 12 days

Wind: 16 mph

 

Note: the bloody fox has nobbled Levi’s chicken coop again, last night. The silly bugger didn’t lock the hatch properly. What’s he expect? I bet the pregnant vixen had more than her fair share before delivering more of the little blighters. No doubt Levi will feed them too!

Jemima

I hook my fingers through the diamond shapes of the heavy-duty wire fencing as I peer through, questioning my own logic. A cockerel crows in the distance – it’s barely past dawn and the streets are deserted – yet I stand beneath a morning sky of pink and lilac hues. Is there anywhere in the world as beautiful as Shetland? A morning sky such as this simply reminds me how lucky I am to witness an ever-changing but glorious canvas created by weather and science. I’m rarely awake at this hour, even when I’m working; unheard of whilst I’m on sabbatical. I can’t see a single bird, but the dawn chorus trumpets a cacophony of warbling from every direction. I suspect they haven’t been awake all night; unlike me, twisting two tiny keys through my fingers like worry beads.

After saying farewell to the Quinn family, my mood hadn’t lifted nor my anxiety lowered all day. I was tempted to nip around to Happy Days to raise a glass in Grandpop’s memory, but feared I’d bump into the Quinns sussing out his possessions. Instead, I’d dashed home, showered and changed before spending the night watching TV, which didn’t make me laugh, and then emptied the fridge of a cheese selection which I wasn’t meant to consume alone or in one sitting. I even went in search of a hidden bar of cooking chocolate – which can be a suitable substitute for comfort eating, sometimes. Sadly, I suspect I scoffed my secret stash the night Grandpop died.

By nine o’clock, I called it a day and sullenly climbed into bed clutching the tiny keys, their edges biting at my skin, and taking comfort in the thought that his fingerprints were rubbing off on to mine. I considered getting a duplicate copy made, enabling me to attach these originals to my house keys. I’m not averse to hoarding objects, another trait inherited from Grandpop. As my flat rightly proves. I live amongst treasured possessions which others would have thrown away: broken clocks, peacock feathers, chipped china cups, decorative perfume boxes and one-eyed cuddly bears. All are safe for eternity, safeguarding my specific memory of time, place or person.

A blackbird warbles. I strain my ears to pick out the distinct call. A wren. Possibly a robin, and the blackbird again.

Grandpop loved to listen to birdsong. I was only seven when he’d dragged me out early one morning to tend his allotment; my lesson for the day, despite it being a school holiday, was to recognise each song. Boy, did I moan.

Reluctantly, I release the wire fencing. Folk will think I’m potty if they arrive to find me motionless and staring at the gravelled car park, shrubbery and drystone wall beyond.

I touch the industrial-sized padlock adorning the sliding latch.

I’d only come to look through the entrance gate; a simple reminder of days gone by.

A large wooden board declares ‘Trespassers will be prosecuted’ in angry red lettering. I assume this may be a lie; the painted wobbly font mimics a child’s handwriting. But still – I’ve been warned.

I hesitate before inserting the key. I’m surprised by the ease of its connection: no snagging, biting or jarring. Surely you can’t trespass with a key? I’m free to nip inside, take a recce, and leave immediately. As long as I secure the padlock, who will ever know?

The padlock springs open. I unhook it from its coupling before sliding the metal plate across, freeing the wire gate. There’s plenty of juddering and a vibrating sound occurs as metal signage rattles when I push open the gate.

When did I stop visiting Grandpop here? After Gran died? ‘The old bugger wants an excuse to get from under my feet,’ was Gran’s frequent remark after he took on his plot as a hobby, some forty years ago. She’d have loved him to have sectioned off part of their garden, allowing him to be within hollering distance of the back doorstep, but Grandpop never obliged her.

I sneak inside and secure the padlock, before hastily tiptoeing across the empty gravel car park. From childhood, I know there are two paths around the allotment site – the nearest, on my right, or the other, at the far end – which sweep around and link up to create a figure-of-eight formation on which the allotments are arranged. It’s been many years since I last visited but I know which track to take.

A sense of déjà vu washes over me as I take the nearest dirt track. It seems narrower, with its centre line of tufted grass and its borders edged with overgrown brambles and nettles. ‘It encourages the wildlife,’ I remember Grandpop saying, on more than one occasion.

Ahead, numerous coloured flags are hoisted high upon extendable poles, their fabric unfurling in the gentle breeze. It’s like a United Nations convention amongst compost heaps and water butts. I can name a few – the Norwegian flag, the Union Jack and, of course, the Scottish flag – and yet there are others, such as the blue, black and white, which I’ve never seen before.

I’ve forgotten how far along on the right-hand side Grandpop’s allotment is, but no doubt I’ll recognise it when I reach it. It was always quite distinct, with its dilapidated blue shed and the rain-washed scarecrow I made one bonfire night, and which Grandpop claimed was ‘too good to burn’.

I plod along, taking in the view as I pass allotments on either side.

The first two allotments have wire fencing, enabling me to see the symmetry created by block paving and slabbed pathways, neat rows of healthy green plants and furrowed rows of rich brown soil. One has a string puppet made from brown flowerpots, with googly eyes and a painted smile, hanging beside the gate post. Both have brightly painted sheds, water butts, and watering cans lined up like soldiers along their fencing – each plot is neater than my flat, if I’m honest.

The next few allotments are distinct and unique in style and layout. One has a gaudy patterned carpet covering half of the soil. It has wigwams of canes, dotted here and there, but nothing growing up each knotted structure. There are several buckets filled with brown water, others are upended and several watering cans lie on their sides. Another plot has army camouflage netting suspended by metal poles, creating a tent-like structure beneath which two deckchairs and a barbecue are strewn and . . . I peer through the fencing. There’s a face staring back at me. I’m watching them watching me! I step back, embarrassed to find someone tending their plot while I’m blatantly trespassing, albeit in possession of a key.

The head doesn’t move. The eyes don’t blink. In fact, much to my surprise, the person isn’t anything but a head and some well-positioned shrubbery. There are no shoulders, no body or limbs. It is literally a bald mannequin head, supported on a pole, watching me as closely as I am watching her. How freaky is that? I instantly regret mistreating my Girl’s World by cutting her hair and piercing her ears with drawing pins, but never did I shove her on a six-foot pole and display her in the garden.

I continue along the row, amazed by the variety and abundance. Some plots are a gardeners’ paradise full of greenery and vitality while others are bare patches of recently dug soil with simple pathways dividing the oblong plot. Raised beds, bird tables, chicken runs, painted bookcases, supermarket bags-for-life, strange ornamental pots and orange traffic cones quirkily decorate others. Perimeter fences are either aligned and secure or lopsided, with easy access via a gaping hole in the side section. It’s simply another world. I don’t remember it being like this as a child. But what child questions an adult’s obsession with collecting ten galvanised burnie bins, footballing gnomes and streamers of weather-worn plastic bunting? It appears that each plot is as individual as their owner. I reckon if I had a line-up of total strangers, I could probably match 80 per cent to the right allotment plot within a five-minute conversation. Though whether I want to meet the owner of the spiked mannequin head is another matter.

Just think, every morning since my last visit, the birds have sung and busy hands have worked these allotments. I feel quite overwhelmed; Grandpop loved being here.

I reach the middle section of the figure of eight and, glancing to my right, catch sight of a view which I haven’t seen in years. Not since Gran died and Grandpop couldn’t cope with being alone in a three-bedroomed house. Instantly, everything makes sense. I don’t need anyone to tell me whose allotment plot this is. Before me is the solid oak front door which had once graced their beloved family home, complete with its brass door number 51, matching letter box and tiny semicircle of glass in the upper section. And a Yale lock.

I presume Grandpop replaced the door before the new owners took possession. I gently stroke the closed letter box, causing it to rattle on its tiny hinges. My crayoned birthday cards, our holiday postcards declaring ‘wish you were here!’ and, sadly, the hospital’s written confirmation of the results of Gran’s biopsy had all been delivered through this very slot. My mum and her siblings must each have owned a key; they had probably snuck in after late nights out, on occasions slammed it in temper, and been escorted towards wedding cars by doting parents. Wow, even I was once carried past this door as a newborn to meet my grandpop for the first time.

I gulp at the sentiment; he might have downsized the property but not his memories.

I don’t need to go any further; this is the one. I peer through the heavy wire fencing at the plot on which I used to run about, tending weeds with a plastic toy watering can, wearing dungarees with a pretty patch pocket, my favourite red wellingtons and Grandpop’s handkerchief knotted on my head.

‘It’s about bloody time you showed up.’

I’m lost in a world of my own, so his voice startles me.

‘Oh!’ My hand reaches for my heart as if I were frail.

Behind me stands an elderly gent. His tartan cap of grey, black and red is pulled low, and his smile is as wide as Grandpop’s front door.

‘I’m not trespassing, honest. I have keys. I can prove it. Call me nosey but curiosity got the better of me.’ I jabber on until the old man gently taps my forearm.

‘I know, Jemima. It was Mungo who delivered them to the solicitors’ office.’

‘Yes, Tommy’s granddaughter,’ I add, for clarification.

‘I’m Bill Moffat. I’ll show you around.’ He gestures towards the door lock and, without hesitation, I insert the Yale key and twist, before taking a tentative step across the threshold.

‘It’s very early,’ I say, reminding myself that a guided tour wasn’t part of my plan.

‘I’m up with the lark and down here as soon as I can be,’ he chuckles, following my lead and closing the front door behind us.

Right now, I should be at home, preparing my usual cereal and deciding how to fill Day 29 of my sabbatical. I slip the keys into my jeans pocket as my limbs adopt an awkward self-conscious stance, unsure how to behave whilst remembering all the times I’ve played on this crazy paving.

‘This way . . . I’ll give you the fly-by-night tour – you can discover the rest for yourself.’ Bill marches off along the pathway towards the potting shed and polytunnel at the far end.

I scurry after him, afraid to be judged as uninterested or lagging in vitality. For a man of his years, his strides knock spots off my slower pace. His faded corduroy trousers are baggy over his aged frame and are clumsily gathered, held in place by a wide leather belt which he wears over his woolly jumper. His clumpy boots show a multitude of colours and marks: paint splatter, dust and dirt.

‘We’ve done the best we can between us for near on a fortnight, but I’m sure Tommy’s up there cursing us for not completing tasks to his standard. He was a stickler for tradition and standards, you know?’ He suddenly turns, addressing me, and seems surprised that I’m not a step behind but ten steps away. He continues to walk and talk. ‘Anyway, between us, the committee members – tha