There was something rather special Miss Marple thought about bluebells. She wasn’t sure what it was. Perhaps it was the sheer beauty of seeing a mass of them when walking in the woods. Or perhaps it was the short time during which they flowered – if you were away for a couple of weeks in April, it was possible to miss them that year. It might even be due to the short-lived nature of the picked flowers. As a child she remembered the excitement of taking home some bluebells for her mother, only to suffer the disappointment as they quickly faded.

And then there were the young women who she thought of as bluebells. They were pretty, and they knew it, although she suspected it was frequently enhanced with cheap make up. For a few months one summer they would attract the lads and go to dances and the cinema several days each week, but rarely with the same lad more than two or three times. But even when they had found someone they were more interested in, it would only last for perhaps a week, and by the end of the summer they were disappointed and suddenly aware that life required more from them than a pretty face and a lively manner. The shops and offices they worked in were dull and humdrum, and their families expected them to help out while they lived at home, and the gayety they had felt had all faded.

Some then become that other blue flower, the forget-me-not: small, easily trodden on, but desperate to be noticed. They never quite forget what might have been, if only things had turned out differently. Others, however, become delphiniums. They learn from their experiences and grow up. They are not immune to external circumstances, drought, flooding and pests can take their toll of even the best tended flowers, but, unlike the forget-me-nots, their roots go down deeper and their resilience is greater.

And so, as another group of girls finish school and prepare to enjoy the summer before the reality of a working life becomes clear to them, Miss Marple watches, spots the bluebells amongst them, and waits.