I pause, startled into silence. Everyone here talks about Carla’s death so openly, as if it happened to all of us – I’d have thought I’d mind it, but somehow it’s better.

‘I didn’t mean to put Betsy in her place,’ I say. ‘Is that what people are saying?’

Arnold chuckles. ‘Ah, anyone can see you’ve got her goat. But don’t worry, she needs pulling in line sometimes. Look up busybody in the dictionary and there Betsy’ll be.’

I actually think there’s more to Betsy than that. There’s something defensive about her bossiness, like she’s getting in there first, telling you how to live your life before you can tell her how to live hers.

‘What’s the story with Cliff, her husband?’ I ask.

Arnold looks down at the ground, scuffing one foot. ‘Mmm,’ he says. ‘Nasty piece of work, that one. Wouldn’t wish a man like that on any woman.’

‘What do you mean?’ I frown, remembering how quickly Betsy had got up when Cliff had summoned her home from Clearwater Cottage. ‘Does he – does he treat Betsy badly?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ Arnold says hastily. ‘People’s marriages are their own business.’

‘Sure, but … only to a point, right? Have you ever seen anything that’s got you worried?’

‘I ought not to …’ Arnold glances sideways at me. ‘It’s not my business.’

‘I’m not trying to gossip,’ I say. ‘I’m trying to make sure Betsy’s all right.’

Arnold rubs his chin. ‘There’s been the odd thing. Cliff is a stickler for how things are done. He gets angry if Betsy gets it wrong. These days he doesn’t get out much – she’s at his beck and call, from what I can gather, but if you walk past their house with the windows open at the wrong moment you’ll hear how he talks to her, and it’s not …’ Arnold shakes his head. ‘It’s not how you ought to talk to a woman is all I’m saying. It wears away at her. She’s not who she used to be. But we all do what we can for her. There’s nobody in this village who wouldn’t take her in if she needed it.’

Does she know that, I wonder? Is anyone saying it out loud, or are they all doing what my grandma does – keeping quiet, not interfering? I make a mental note to try harder with Betsy. I’m not exactly someone she’d trust to confide in, but maybe I could be.

Arnold suddenly slaps his forehead. ‘Bugger. I was meant to ask you something. That’s why I dropped by in the first place. You’re not busy this morning, are you? We need a favour.’

‘Oh?’ I say warily, wondering who ‘we’ might be.

‘Do you know what day it is?’

‘Err.’ In all honesty, I have slightly lost track of the days. ‘Sunday?’

‘It’s Easter Sunday,’ Arnold says, getting up from the bench. ‘And we need an Easter bunny.’

*

‘Jackson. I should have known you’d be at the bottom of this.’

Jackson looks perplexed. The shoulders of his jumper are splattered with raindrops, and he’s holding a wicker basket full of foiled chocolate eggs. We’re at the village hall, which has been decorated with special Easter bunting and large signs declaring that this is the starting point for the annual Hamleigh-in-Harksdale Easter egg hunt, kicking off in exactly half an hour.

‘At the bottom of this … free event for children?’ he says.

‘Yes,’ I say, eyes narrowed. ‘Yes, exactly.’

He blinks innocently at me, but I am not fooled. He is one hundred per cent trying to mess with me. I made some real headway with Dr Piotr the other day, in the queue at the village shop – he all but promised me he’d vote for my May Day theme. Then I caught sight of Jackson browsing the newspapers behind us, clearly eavesdropping.

This, surely, is his revenge.

‘Doesn’t Leena look the bee’s knees?’ Arnold asks from behind me.

I am wearing white fleece trousers with a bunny tail sewn on; they’re about six sizes too big for me and held on with a leather belt borrowed from Arnold. I am also sporting a patterned waistcoat with (in case things weren’t clear) bunnies all over it. Also, bunny ears. Aren’t bunny ears meant to be sexy? I feel like an actual clown.

‘Shut up, Arnold,’ I say.

A smile tugs at Jackson’s lips. ‘Even better than I expected. It suits you.’

There is a loud, dramatic gasp behind me. I spin and am faced with the sight of an outrageously cute little girl. Her blonde hair is in lopsided pigtails, there is a long streak of what looks like permanent marker on her cheek, and one of her trouser legs is rolled up to reveal a long, stripy sock. She has both hands on her cheeks, like the shocked-face emoji, and her blue eyes are wide – and very familiar.

‘The Easter bunny,’ she breathes, gazing up at me. ‘WOW.’

‘Samantha, my daughter,’ Jackson says from behind me. ‘She’s a very firm believer in the Easter bunny.’

This is a clear warning. What does he think I am, a monster? I may despise being dressed as a ridiculous rabbit, but there is clearly only one appropriate way to respond to this situation.

‘Well, hello there, Samantha,’ I say, crouching down. ‘I’m so glad I’ve found you!’

‘Found me?’ she says, eyes like saucers.

‘I left my burrow early this morning and I’ve been hopping all over the Yorkshire Dales looking for somebody who might be able to help me, and I think you could well be just the person, Samantha.’

‘Me?’ Samantha breathes.

‘Well, let’s see, shall we? Do you like chocolate eggs?’

‘Yes!’ Samantha says, with a little jump.

‘Are you good at hiding things?’

‘Yes!’ Samantha says.

‘Like my left shoe,’ Jackson says dryly from behind me, though I can hear he’s smiling. ‘Which you did a very good job of hiding this morning.’

‘A very good job,’ Samantha says earnestly, gaze fixed on my face.

‘And – now, this one is very important, Samantha – can you keep secrets? Because if you’re going to be the Easter bunny’s helper, you’re going to know where all the chocolate eggs are hidden. And all the other children will be asking you for clues.’

‘I won’t tell!’ Samantha says. ‘I won’t!’

‘Well then,’ I say, straightening up and turning back to Jackson. ‘I do believe I’ve found my special helper.’

Jackson grins at me. It’s the first full smile I’ve ever seen him do – he’s got dimples, proper ones, one in each cheek. He swoops in and grabs Samantha by the armpits, swinging her up on to his hip.

‘What a lucky young lady,’ he says, burying his face in her neck until she’s almost choking with giggles.

Something flips in my tummy at the sight of Samantha in his arms – it’s a sort of sudden-onset fuzziness, as though my brain’s gone as fleecy as my trousers.

‘Thank you,’ Jackson mouths at me. He bends and picks up the basket of eggs, handing it to Samantha. She leans her head against his shoulder with the perfect trust of a child. ‘Ready?’