I perched on the edge of an armchair in the hushed sitting room and followed her movements in the kitchen by sound. The whoosh of water as a kettle filled. The click of a cupboard, opening and closing. The soft suck of a fridge door.

I blinked. The parcel sat on the coffee table beside the women’s magazines. Beneath, the carpet was hectic, with red and pink swirls. The cushions on the beige settee seemed carefully chosen to reflect the same shades. The wall-lights were semi-transparent glass, the bulbs held by pale-pink petals.

Jennifer. She’d greeted me by name before I had the chance to speak. Had she mistaken me for someone else? It made no sense. I wondered what Matt would think if he knew I’d come.

‘Do you use a teapot?’

She came in carrying a laden tea-tray, lined with a lace-edged cloth, and began the methodical business of setting out the teapot, covered with a hand-knitted cosy, two cups and saucers, the milk jug, a sugar bowl and teaspoons. A plate of plain biscuits. Serviettes. She was entertaining, in the old-fashioned way. Making an effort.

‘So many people have lost the ability to make a decent cup of tea. Don’t you find? I went to New York once. A long time ago, when Harold was still alive. I asked for tea at breakfast and do you know what they brought me? A mug of lukewarm water, no saucer, with a rather dismal teabag floating in it.’ She tutted. ‘They may be the leaders of the free world but really, they have a lot to learn about tea.’

She spoke softly but efficiently as if she were used to being in command of her own ship. Her back was straight and firm as she sat forward to pour the milk, then placed a metal tea strainer over my cup and added the tea. It was strong. She struck me as the kind of woman it might be dangerous to underestimate.

‘Do have a biscuit.’ She set a plate in front of me and a serviette, folded into a triangle. ‘I always use loose-leaf tea. Everyone seems to use teabags. But you know what they put in those bags? Sweepings from the floor.’ She nodded. ‘It’s true. I read an article about it.’

She seemed perfectly at ease, crossing her legs neatly at the ankle and watching me with a half-smile as I sipped my tea. She was wearing light slip-on shoes, rather than slippers, and I wondered if I’d interrupted her as she was getting ready to go out.

I took a deep breath. ‘I am sorry to disturb you. I was delivering a parcel, you see. For a little girl. It’s her birthday in a few days and I didn’t trust the post.’

She nodded as if she already knew. ‘Katy.’

I stared. Katy’s name wasn’t written on the envelope, only her surname, Aster.

She smiled, watching me. Again, I had the sense that she understood far more than I did and was giving me time to catch up.

‘Let’s drink our tea and have a chat first. Then I’ll explain about all that.’

She talked easily for a while, as if we were old friends. Inconsequential chat about the warm weather. The accelerating pace of life in London and the demise of good neighbours. The changes to the cul-de-sac since she and Harold moved there, more years ago than she cared to remember.

I listened for clues but her conversation was as carefully neutral as the three-piece suite. She clearly cherished the vanishing English art of small talk as dearly as she valued properly made tea.

Finally, as we reached the bottom of the pot, she set aside her cup and saucer, picked up the parcel and got to her feet.

‘Come.’