We’d had a good day wandering the village and we were resting in the park observing the small gardens sprinkled throughout it.
“My Gran,” said Crisp, “had a concrete gnome in her garden. She called it Geoffrey. Every five years she gave him a fresh coat of paint, to smarten him up she’d say. Gran reckoned it was important to freshen Geoffrey up as he would move about in her garden and if she neglected him too much he may well move out.”
It was easy to see where Crisp acquired so much of her imagination. It was a family trait. “Gran said that one-year Geoffrey scarpered and they found him down on the jetty fishing. Caught a few too so she said. We never doubted her.”
This was said in the same way I often felt I could never doubt Crisp.