‘Evie.’
‘Why? You want to ask her out?’
‘I want to know where she lives.’
‘In the village.’
‘Where in the village?’
‘Out at Witts Farm, just a little way up the Parham road. There’s a sign for the farm shop right out front – you can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you.’
He turned to leave.
‘What about your breakfast?’
‘I’ll forego it this morning. Thank you.’
He got his bicycle out of the shed and set off on another fine, warm May morning through the sleepy roads.
After the excesses of the May Fair it seemed everyone was sleeping in, their curtains still drawn against the sun. The hedges were strewn with discarded streamers and on the green the maypole still stood, its ribbons now tightly wrapped around it.
It seemed like some grotesque erotic dream now and Adam almost wondered if he’d hallucinated it all. Maybe there was something in the Saxonhurst water.
Then his front wheel squashed over the abandoned clutch of willow wands, and he knew it was real.
The cottages thinned out on the road to town and Adam found himself freewheeling through lush green and yellow until he rode past a chalkboard offering a range of pick-your-own fruits and vegetables at Witts Farm. He slowed down, spotting a cluster of buildings a few yards further on that must be the place.
A hand-painted sign advertised the farm shop, selling eggs, honey, free range chickens and every kind of fruit or vegetable known to grow in the valley. Asparagus was popular at this time of year, and the strawberries and other soft fruits were just coming into their own.
He turned left into a small gravelled car park and hopped off his bike, looking about him at the well-kept farmhouse and its collection of outbuildings, including a whitewashed single-storey cabin that must act as the shop.
It was closed, but he could hear frantic clucking from the back of the house, indicating that chickens were being fed.
He walked around to the back yard and found a woman in a headscarf flinging grain at a large collection of different poultry. He watched their mindless pecking for a while, waiting for the woman to see and acknowledge him.
When she looked up, she started, then walked over.
‘The new vicar, isn’t it?’ she said.
She didn’t sound pleased to see him.
‘Adam Flint,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘I won’t,’ she said, indicating the basin of chickenfeed. ‘Bit dusty. What’s this about?’
‘Pastoral visit,’ he said. It sounded unconvincing as soon as the words passed his lips.
‘Pastoral? We don’t keep sheep here. This is arable land.’
‘But my flock is human.’
‘Oh, right. I still don’t really understand what you’re doing here.’
‘Excuse me, but are you a relative of Evie Witts?’
‘Yes, I’m her mother.’