The WI have got me on cream teas again. I suppose it’s not too much bother. Though it’s a bit warm standing by this urn all day. All the cupcakes Deirdre Whatsit made have been snaffled up by the players, as have Tish Madoc’s Fondant Fancies. No one seems to like the look of my rock cakes. Oh well.
All these sweaty men galumphing back and forth. I never liked the game much anyway. But there’s something about seeing them in their whites on the village green. I don’t know – for a moment it’s like being a hundred years ago. Back in my own time.
Best not to think about time travel, Wibbs. It only upsets you.
Here they come. Time to feed the five thousand again. Here come the Stockbridge lot. They’ve absolutely thrashed the Hexford Eleven, but everyone’s pretty good-natured about it. Their star-bowler’s a nice-looking chap. Blonde and quite young. When I pour him his tea he’s giving me a very old-fashioned look, though.
‘Mrs Wibbsey?’ He’s looking for all the world like I’m a lovely surprise. He introduces me to a young man he’s travelling with, he says. Shifty-looking type dressed as a schoolboy, and there's an Australian person too. He explains to them that I am the best housekeeper he ever met.
I frown at this. Have we ever met before? I can’t be sure.
‘Still at Nest Cottage?’ he asks, in a light tone, picking up one of my cakes.
‘Well, yes,’ I say. ‘I’m looking after it for the owner while he’s away…’
‘Very good, Wibbs,’ he grins.