I remember Brenton saying that the Rachley police had better things to do than raid people’s private herb gardens, and anyway, the Rachley police wouldn’t know an illegally imported herb if they fell over one.
When I rang Brenton that morning, he seemed irritated.
‘You’re not writing some bloody awful family history, are you?’ Brenton shouted down the phone. ‘Because if you are, I don’t want any part in it.’
‘No. I'm not writing a family history. Yes, I agree. If I wrote one it would be bloody awful, but I'm not.’
‘Well, what are you doing there then?’
‘Cleaning. Throwing stuff out. Going through all the rooms. Buying stuff in the village. The turn-off tree’s still there. I found my old diaries. I thought I might write something, though not a family history, but perhaps how I see thin
