“But they’re unusually dark Mavis, not blue, as in the name.
“My Henry swears by them. He makes them into apple and blueberry tarts. He sold them at the church fete last year. Presented on homemade doyleys and everything.”
“Aw, poor Henry. How’s he doing since whatsername died? He’s too young to be a widower.”
“He’s such a strong boy. The vicar is a rock and lends a shoulder to cry on.
“So, I heard Doris. So, I heard.”