I had it all day yesterday, a vague feeling of unease that I couldn’t shake off, but I put it down to the violent attack of hayfever that had left me totally exhausted, two nights without sleep, and the effects of the hayfever medication. I took myself off to Poitiers on a shopping spree, but it didn’t do the trick, and when I went to bed I still felt very down and anxious for no reason that I could identify.

This morning, when I saw Mr Nextdoor at the gate, unusual at such an early hour, my first thought was that he had come to tell us that one of our animals had been injured but his face was drawn and pale, so I realised it was something far more serious.

Madame Grimaud, the dearest old lady, who, though she walked with difficulty and seldom went out was always cheerful, with a bright smile and mischievous eyes, had died in the night. The neighbours had seen that her shutters had not been opened at the usual time, had gone in and found her in her bed, just as she would have wanted.

The last time I saw her, about a month ago, she had been in very good spirits, and had told me that her son felt it was time for her to move into a residential home, but, she said, she wanted to stay in her own home for as long as possible. And she had told her close friends, Mr and Mrs Nextdoor, that she hoped when her time was over she would go very quickly. So both those wishes were fulfilled and I am happy for her, but she will leave a big space in the hamlet where she had lived for more than fifty years, and in my heart, too.

Her name was Eglantine, the French name for the sweet briar rose.

Eglantine