Guests at the grange

GAVIN and I turned to look at each other on the sofa as the television credits rolled. “I know we’ve agreed for a long time that ‘Inspector Bletchley’ is our favourite programme,” I said. “But that wa

STAY still,” a strong, male voice commanded from the gloom. The autumn sun was setting on Wildwood Cottage, silhouetting its undulating structure dramatically against a charcoal and orange sky. “Well,

COME on, Jo. You haven’t been out with us for ages,” Gemma chided me, when she phoned. “It’s not good for you sitting about in that poky flat all on your own.” “I’m not on my own. I have Simon,” I cor

SARAH DITUM

The mini digger we hired was bright yellow. It sounded like a bus and belched out black smoke. Phil, looking like he sat upon a child’s toy, aimed it down the garden after the hire company unloaded it

IRIS walked slowly to the front door of her Victorian villa in Fairley, a sleepy Sussex village. It had begun, she fumed silently – the “invasion” of her home. Of course, she’d been expecting it. Her