'Gillian Newbury,' Elizabeth said.
George frowned. 'Gillian Newbury?'
'Yes. You remember her.'
'No.'
'Scottish lass.'
George frowned again, but then he smiled. 'Oh, yes. Gillian of the ginger minge.'
Elizabeth laughed. 'She was definitely a redhead. But I can't verify that her carpet matched her drapes.'
'I'm pretty sure that it did. Or am I getting her mixed up with someone else?'
'It's your story,' Elizabeth said.
'You're the one telling it.'
'She wrote a book. Did you know?'
'No, I didn't. Good?'
'Don't know. I saw it in the library. It was in the gardening section. There was a display.'
'In the gardening section? Are you sure it was the same Gillian Newbury?'
'There was a photograph. She was older of course. But, yes, it was certainly her.'
'A gardening book?'
'Roses.'
'Oh? I didn't realise that she was into roses.'
'Perhaps she wasn't. Back in the day.'
'Well... that was quite a while ago now,' George said.
'Forty years? No. Must be fifty years.'
'I suppose it must be.'
'She married that chap who was the sales manager for some seed company. Perhaps that's how she got interested in gardening. I seem to remember they moved to Bristol.'
'Did they?'