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“I don’t see Chickie,” she says and then: “Pass me my bag.”

Jammed down the side of the seat is one of those triangular witches’ bags, faded black leather with a large gold clasp. I extract it and hand it to her as instructed. From the musty interior she draws out a mirror in a suede case.

“Now,” she wipes the surface with the back of her liver-spotted hand. “What do you see?”

She holds the mirror up to her own face. And this is what I see: A spooky old bat with snow-white hair, weird black eyebrows and about a million wrinkles.

“Come on,” she urges, “come on.”

“I just see a lady.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Well an old… erm, an elderly lady then.”

“Liar,” she says. “Tell me what you see.”

But I can’t.

So she says, “You see an old hag. A wrinkled old hag. Yes?”

“Maybe.”

“So do I.” She puts away the mirror. “It always surprises me. You see, I expect to see the girl I was at twenty. With skin and hair like yours. And yet whenever I look – there’s the old hag.” She laughs quietly.

“Right.”

“So you’ll go to Chance House for me?”

I’m not sure where the “so” comes from in this. There doesn’t seem any “so” about it. But I nod like the sad guy I am.

“Good. Thank you.”

“Everything OK?” asks Catherine, coming by.

“Oh yeah. Great.”

“Good.” She moves on but not before Albert bursts into song:

“Run rabbit, run rabbit, run run run.”

“Stop it,” says Edith Sorrel. “Stop that at once!”

“Don’t be afraid of the farmer’s gun!” squawks up Mavis.

“Right on,” says Niker.

“He’ll get by…” continues Albert in a gravelly lilt, “without a rabbit pie…”

“Stop the singing,” says Edith. “Don’t sing. I asked you to stop.”

“Ole misery guts,” mutters Albert.

“Run,” Niker encourages the Chicken, “run rabbit…”

Edith draws herself to her feet. She is tall. She reaches for her stick. For one insane moment I think she intends to hit someone. But of course she only means to walk away.

“Run,” sings Albert jovially to her stiff, retreating back, “rabbit, run, run, run.”

I follow Edith into the corridor. Each stride looks painful.