Mrs Hodge

Mrs Hodge lives on Harbour Lane, in one of the terraced cottages that face the water across a strip of pavement.

The lane runs along the eastern edge of the harbour. In summer it attracts painters and photographers.

She is in her late seventies and has been drawing her own conclusions for seventy-seven years. She does not begin with a pleasantry. She knows who you are, says so, and proceeds to the complaint.

In October the complaint was milk bottles. They were being smashed on her doorstep in the early hours. It had been going on for ten days or so, and had happened three times in a single week. Her first word on the subject was “Vandals.” Nobody, she pointed out, breaks two bottles by accident. She had only just got back to sleep.

She comes to the door in a wool dressing gown of considerable age, with her arms folded and the look of someone who has not yet decided who is responsible but is confident that it is someone.

Where you will find her

On Harbour Lane, on her own doorstep, early. The cottage is a private residence.