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you,’ Grace said, grabbing her opportunity. ‘I noticed how well designed the new part of the cemetery is. Do you employ someone to manage it?’
    ‘The diocese wouldn’t pay someone else to do that when they have me. But thank you, I take it as a compliment that you approve,’ the vicar replied, not without sarcasm.
    ‘The grave digging, you do that too, then?’ Grace countered.
    ‘No, I leave that to the borough council. Now if there’s nothing I can help you with further, I must get on.’
    Grace walked towards the door with Reverend Lanceley following behind her. Once outside she heard the key quickly snap in the lock.

Chapter 10
     
    Amelia was surprised to find that Grace was up and out so early. She didn’t mind. It was a joy to sit and eat her breakfast alone in the conservatory. She sat with her notebook and ran through the list of jobs to be done. Prioritising the more urgent ones, she decided which she should tackle first.
    Her sewing machine and stand were in the conservatory, positioned a safe distance away from the plants and soil. Amelia sat with lengths of material draped around her feet on the clean tiles. Accompanied by Radio One and the machine’s soft whirring noise, she hummed snatches of songs. By twelve o’clock a box pleat pelmet was all that needed to be made to complete the order. A pair of curtains and a set of tie backs were already wrapped in tissue and folded in a box, ready to post.
    Amelia, head bent low and concentrating on her work, didn’t hear the knock on the kitchen door. The second knock, louder this time, stopped her, and she called out.
    ‘Hang on a minute.’ Mindful not to tread on the material, Amelia went to open the back door. A man stood on the step, cap in hand. He had an anxious expression and at once began apologising. Amelia’s heart sank. There must be a gypsy camp nearby as she’d thought, she acknowledged to herself. Shaking her head, Amelia began to close the door, speculating on whether the man was related to the women Grace had seen in their garden.
    ‘Sorry, we don’t need anything today,’ she said through the narrowing gap.
    ‘I heard you’re looking for an odd job man. I’ve come to offer my services. Joseph Jones is my name and people call me Joe.’ Joe leaned forward and spoke through the crack in the door, raising his voice so Amelia could hear him. ‘I live in one of the cottages up the road, nice and local like, on your doorstop so to speak.’ Joe stopped for breath and waited, hopeful.
    Amelia opened the door again. ‘Hello. I am sorry about that. Will you come in for a minute?’ Amelia asked apologetically, feeling uncomfortable about her blunder.
    Joe wiped his feet on the door mat and then stood rooted to the spot. Amelia filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, then fetched two mugs from the dresser.
    ‘Shall I take my boots off, miss,’ he said worriedly. ‘I came through the wood I did, they’re muddy now.’
    ‘No, don’t bother. Come and sit down, I’ll make some tea. And call me Amelia.’ The sound of Joe’s slight Welsh accent made her feel homesick for Llangollen. Joe looked relieved and sidled over to the table, sitting on the edge of a chair as if ready for flight.
    ‘Have you lived in Woodbury long?’ Amelia asked conversationally.
    ‘Yes, worked mostly on the farms hereabouts. I retired last year, but I still like to keep my hand in, if I can get the work.’ Joe subtly brought the conversation back to the possibility of work.
    ‘Is your wife a local lady?’ Amelia poured out the tea and put a plate of biscuits on the table.
    ‘Yes, childhood sweethearts we were.’ Joe attentively sipped his tea, avoiding Amelia’s eye. ‘Janet worked as a dinner lady at the primary school. We never had any children of our own, you see,’ he said, as if it needed explaining.
    ‘Did you and Janet know our great aunt, Lillian Farrell?’
    ‘Oh yes, and Sophia and Doreen. Lovely old dears the three of