Because it is a bank holiday weekend, it begins to rain. The first few hesitant drops quickly give way to a torrential downpour, drowning out the jazz band round the corner and obscuring the view of the path between the croquet lawn and the rose garden.
We huddle under a little porch by the side of the house. Somewhere out there, Mrs Greville's grave and the dog cemetery are getting drenched.
'Just a passing squall – should die down soon,' said a chap, to no-one in particular.
Suddenly, the curtain of rain parts to reveal a portly man pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair. We rearrange ourselves to allow them into our shelter.
'Oh dear,' sighs the lady, as she puts her brolly away. Her sparse, silver hair clings, wet and tight, to her papery skin.
'Well, that was fun,' said the man wryly. He removes his coat, to reveal a shirt plastered to his back.
And, for a moment, we all fall silent, staring out at the rain.
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