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bridge that spans the river at the bottom, disappears from sight. The church clock strikes twelve. Time perhaps for a break and a spot of lunch.
    “Oh Jack, Jack, take me back to Barnsley with you,” Emmie moans, joy running through every bit of her as, legs apart, she lies on her back among the dead bluebells scattered beneath the ancient oak that stands sentinel over their ‘special glade’.
    “I’d take you to the moon, darling, if I could.” Jack rides above her, his moustache brushing her cheek, blue eyes bulging, breath coming in short, sharp pants. Emmie closes her eyes, goes with the flow. There’s silence for a while, broken at last by the curiously mournful cry of a woman at the moment of passion, causing a fox, sleeping off last night’s meal nearby, to twitch in his sleep, one ear cocked in a question mark.
    “Major, some bloke to see you, says he wants a word with the owner. I said as Mrs M. was out you’d come.” Karen’s head poking round the office door.
    Sam jumps guiltily, “I’m on my way. Did he give a name?”
    “No, but I think he be the new bloke down Brown End. Don’t know ‘es name but some says they seen un on telly.” Sam hurries after her, his eyes drawn inescapably, as iron filings to a magnet, towards Karen’s enormous bottom encased in the green mini skirt, swaying in front of him. A tall, aesthetic looking man stands behind the counter in the shop. Burned brown by the sun, longish, grey hair and a small pointed beard, he looks, Sam thinks, a bit like some saint in an Old Master painting, St Jerome perhaps, someone like that, except he’s wearing jeans, T-shirt and sandals. Seeing Sam he surges forward hands outstretched, filling the shop with personality, an aroma of Gauloise cigarettes and garlic.
    “Major Mallory? Selwyn Woodhead, hi. Thought I’d make myself known as a newcomer to the neighbourhood. My wife, Clarrie and I moved into Brown End last week.” Sam wonders if he should return the ‘Hi’; decides to keep it formal, he is after all only a humble shopkeeper.
    “Nice to meet you, Mr Woodhead. Actually my wife and I are newcomers ourselves; we only moved here a couple of years ago.”
    “Splendid, splendid,” Selwyn Woodhead nods absently, his eyes roving, possibly with a hint of disapproval, round the shelves. “Do you deliver?”
    “Yes we do, but try to keep it to a radius of ten miles. We started doing it when we came here and it seems –”
    “Local honey?”
    “Pardon?”
    “Local honey, do you stock it? My wife and myself are honey fanatics, I’m afraid. We find it the answer to so many things. A most charming man we met at some frightful publishers’ jamboree last year – probably the Booker, I can’t remember now, but like most of those things too little booze and too much waffle, anyway he told Clarrie he’d written this book on the benefits of honey, from the spiritual as well as the medicinal point of view. She read it, became converted and, I have to admit not without a certain struggle, converted me.”
    “We certainly stock honey.” Sam hopes he’s right, he must be, surely? “Although I’m not entirely sure if –”
    “My granddad be a bee breeder.” The two men turn to Karen in surprise. In Sam’s case, it has to be said, with some disapproval. Somehow she wasn’t the sort of person he expected to be taking part in the conversation, especially one that took in publishers’ jamborees and the Booker Prize. But Selwyn turns towards her, smiles his formidable smile: “Your granddad keeps bees?”
    “Six hives, he has, or I think it be six. He doesn’t half have a lot of honey. Sells it at the door of his council house sometimes, when he’s got too much,” she turns to Sam, “and the gentleman did say he were into honey…”
    “You’re absolutely right, my dear, and marvellous news you know of a local source.” Selwyn pats Karen’s shoulder rather as he would a friendly horse. “Now tell me, would your, er,