Edna Kowalski had lived in Primrose Cottage for forty-three years, and in all that time, the most disruptive thing to happen on her front path was when the Hendersons’ terrier dug up her tulip bulbs in 2009. She had words with them about it. The terrier didn’t care, but the Hendersons did, and that was good enough. Life in the village of Ashwell moved at exactly the pace Edna preferred—slow, predictable, and pleasantly unremarkable.
So when she returned from bridge club on a bright Tuesday afternoon to find a young woman in a floor-length linen dress posed against her red front door, one hand wrapped around a takeaway cup and the other tilting a straw hat at an angle that looked uncomfortable, Edna cleared her throat. The young woman was startled, nearly dropping the cup. The man crouched on the path with the enormous camera spun around, looking guilty. Edna asked, quite reasonably, “What exactly are you doing on my property?” The young woman apologised in a breathless rush—they’d knocked, she said, nobody had answered, they’d only need ten more minutes, the cottage was just so beautiful, she hoped that was alright. She had very large eyes and used them effectively.
Edna considered this. It wasn’t alright, strictly speaking. But they seemed harmless enough, and she was curious about the camera and the whole process. She told them ten minutes and meant it, then stepped around them and let herself inside.