I am sitting on a bench in the park when I’m disturbed by a figure sitting down next to me. I’ve had my eyes closed, so I failed to notice anyone approaching. The fact is, I’m supposed to be walking every day, according to my doctor, an activity which is not only a chore, but painful and tiring. I’ve sat down for a moment to catch my breath and somehow I dozed off.

I’m startled awake by the movement of another person. From the corner of my eye, I can see they’ve turned to look at me. It’s a woman, middle-aged perhaps; a little younger than I am, anyway. The woman sits straighter, scrutinises me. It’s uncomfortable and I grab my stick in preparation to heave myself up when she speaks.

‘Hi! Wow! Haven’t seen you for ages! How are you?’

I know I’m frowning back, in spite of her wide grin. Do I know her? How? I begin to feel foolish- and confused. She continues, however, to blather on. I take in the full view of her as she talks- a stream of utter rubbish that she somehow believes has to do with me. She wears a lot of make-up, has died blond curls and is wearing a huge, puffy coat over jogging trousers and trainers, a Sainsbury’s carrier bag dangling from her hand.

‘Is that your stick?’ [no, I think, it just happens to be leaning here, on this bench]. ‘Is it a mobility problem? Last time we met up, you had joined a running club, I think?’ She continues on, apace. ‘Have you still got your cat? I keep seeing one and thinking it’s yours, but yours might be quite old by now?’ Now I’m flustered. I have not, at any time in my entire life, had a cat.

From time to time, I begin to open my mouth to speak, to tell her I don’t know her, we’ve never met, I don’t have a cat- or any other animal for that matter and besides, it’s none of her business why I use a stick or anything else to do with me. But I’m locked in some kind of vocal paralysis and unable to get a purchase between her stream of consciousness.

I glance around, hoping that someone I really do know will walk past or that an incident like an escaped dog or toddler will provide relief, though the park is quiet today with no more than a handful of dog-walkers in the distance. I’m stuck here with this odd woman, rooted to the spot and struck dumb.

The woman continues. Am I still living in the same house? Do I see anything of this or that person? [nobody I’ve ever heard of]. How are my children? [I don’t have any children].

After a few minutes, the inertia that is binding me relaxes. I grab the stick and haul myself to my feet. ‘I must go,’ I say and set off along the path, my chest pounding, willing myself not to look back, my fingers crossed with a fervent hope that she is not following.

I call my sister later and tell her what has happened.

‘She’s a nutter,’ is all she has to say, pragmatic as ever.

A few days later, I’m in Sainsburys, hobbling round with a trolley, attempting to locate the Bisto gravy powder which somehow seems to be missing among the various gravy options, when I feel a tap on my shoulder which makes me leap out of my skin and there, when I turn, is the woman again.

‘We meet again!’ she squeaks, attracting the attention of several others in the aisle and I’m polaxed yet again. This can’t be good for my heart issues. She’s peering into my trolley now.

‘This all looks nice. Are you having a party?’

‘I…no!’ The words come out with more force than I intend, eliciting still more interest from the fellow shoppers. I feel trapped now. She has me caught between herself, the shelves and the trolley. ‘I must go,’ I tell her and pull up my sleeve to look at my watch.

‘Oh- do you have an appointment? What a shame! I was going to suggest we get coffee somewhere. There’s that new place on the High Street that does…’

I don’t wait for her to finish. I grab hold of the trolley, manoeuvre around her and on to the end of the aisle, then make for the checkouts. Of course, in completing this action I miss out on more than half of my shopping, including the Bisto gravy powder and I’ll need to come out again now.

Back at home, I realise I can’t cope with seeing this person all the time, although I’m obliged to continue with my walking practice and I do need to get shopping. I decide to get Sainsbury’s deliveries for the time being and I’ll use the car to go further away for walks, which I do, the following day. I drive a couple of miles and park by the beach, which isn’t busy on a weekday and benefits from a good, flat promenade. I scan the car park before climbing out, pulling my stick behind me and setting off down to the prom.

It all goes very well. There are only a few, stray walkers today. After a few minutes I start to relax and look for a convenient bench to sit down and rest. Lovely. The fresh, sea air is a tonic. I close my eyes, feel I could doze off. But then a voice invades my reverie and my eyes flick open to reveal…her! How on earth can she be here? This is becoming horrific!

‘Goodness! There you are again!’

No, I think; there you are again. I say nothing. I haul myself up and hobble off back to the car park, not looking back. This is getting beyond a joke. In my head I start calling her ‘Plague woman’ because that’s what she does- plague me,

At home, I put the kettle on and sit down to think. How does she keep finding me? I conclude that she must be following me somehow. But how? And, more importantly, why? I take to going and looking out of the window- more than I should. There’s a small row of shops opposite my block of flats – a dry cleaners, a dog grooming parlour, a nail salon and a pizza takeaway. I spend some time watching as people come and go to the shops. Am I becoming paranoid?

It’s a relief to draw the curtains closed as it gets dark but I’m unable to resist getting up to twitch the curtain and look across. Perhaps this is how I’m getting my exercise now, since I haven’t been out walking for the last couple of days. My sister, who lives forty miles away, is becoming alarmed at my reclusive behaviour. She’s coming over at the weekend and will be ‘dragging me out’, as she puts it.

By the time my sister arrives, I’m sick of the same four walls, as well as intrigued to see if Plague woman appears at any point when I’m not alone. First we visit the market, where I stare at each stall’s customers and keep looking over my shoulder until my sister explodes with ‘For God’s sake! You’re acting so weirdly I’m going to disown you in a minute! Just calm down and be normal.’

We get lunch. We do some clothes shopping and in the evening we go to the cinema. It’s all very civilised and pleasant so that when I get home I’m feeling tired but less stressed. I see my sister out and think I’ll pull the curtains before I plop down in the armchair. I go to the window. I stare out, unbelieving. There, there, standing by the lamp-post outside the pizza takeaway, is plague woman, staring straight back at me and grinning that maniac grin. I jerk the curtains closed. My chest is pounding and I’m gasping for breath as I fall into my chair.

There’s only one thing I can think of to do. I ring the police. The policeman who answers listens as I describe the situation. He promises to send a squad car to my road but warns me that unless my property is broken into or I suffer an assault there’s not a lot they can do. It isn’t a crime to stand on the pavement or to talk to someone in a shop or in the park. He tells me that if the woman persists, she might be charged with harassment.

Now I’m armed and ready. I’ve hibernated for long enough. Next morning I collect my stick and my bag and set off to town, heading first to the library, where I return my books and begin browsing the shelves until,,,yes,,, she saunters through the double doors, usual inane grin fixed on her face. I’m behind a bookcase from where I can see her but she has no view of me. She’s at the reception desk saying something to the librarian then begins to search, presumably for me.

I stay put, waiting for her to round the end of the bookcase, which of course, she does. As expected, she makes a big production of being surprised to see me again. I’m still as a statue, looking her in the eye until she subsides. I’m silent for a moment and she begins to look flustered.

‘I saw you last night,’ I begin. ‘I must tell you, I’ve rung the police. I’m logging every incident of your stalking me. You don’t know me and have no reason to pretend to bump into me, You need to leave me alone. If this doesn’t stop, I’ll be ringing the police again and there’ll be a charge of harassment.’

She steps back, her face flushed and tears in her eyes. She shakes her head. ‘No, NO!’ she shrieks, turning. And she runs from the library. I’m left standing, gazing after her.

I’m not able to fully shed the anxiety for a week or two, although I resume the daily walks and outings with my sister and without. I’m down at the allotment garden one afternoon about three weeks after the library encounter. I share a parcel of garden with my friend, Shelley, although since the beginning of the year, she’s been having to do all the heavy work. I sometimes kneel down and pluck a few weeds out. Mostly it’s about the gentle socialising and enjoying the fresh air. On this particular afternoon, Shelley and I are discussing what to plant next in an empty spot when I hear a distant familiar voice, one that I would never wish to hear again ever in my life.

‘I see you’ve still got that little doggy of yours then?’

I peer round the clump of kale and down towards the end of the allotments and there she is. Plague woman. She is haranguing Julia, who has a plot down near the gate and whose Jack Russell terrier accompanies her whenever she is here. I hiss at Shelley, beckon her to me and point.

‘It’s her,’ I whisper. ‘It’s Plague woman.’ Shelley, of course, knows all there is to know about my recent experiences of stalking.

I can see Julia is facing Plague woman but not her reaction. Shelley has a spade in her hand and makes purposeful strides towards the pile of manure that we all share in the centre of the allotments then scoops up a spadeful, indicating that I should follow. And I do, scooping up my own load before following her, stick in one hand, manure in the other. We tread softly along the path past the veg beds, making our way towards the voice, which drones on at Julia, As we pad along, something amazing happens, More gardeners join us, picking up manure as they follow, until we arrive at Julia’s patch and circle her and Plague woman, who glances around her, silent at last. She spots me. Her eyes become wide and frantic, her mouth open as if to scream.

I drop my scoop and step towards her, leaning on my stick. ‘Why are you starting on Julia, now? You need to stop stalking people or you will get into trouble.’

Tears welling up, she stutters. ‘I thought I could be your friend,’ she says.’ You were sitting on your own. I thought if I sat down with you and talked, we’d get to know each other.’

‘But not by pretending you knew me already!’

She shakes her head, her shoulders drooping. Shelley puts her spade down. ‘There are a lot of ways to find friends without frightening strangers,’ she tells Plague woman. ‘Find a group to join, a book club or a walking group or something.’

Plague woman nods. The allotment holders part and she turns to walk back, out of the allotments and down the road. As she walks, she takes a tissue from her pocket and blows her nose.

‘I feel bad now,’ I say to Shelley but she shakes her head. ‘Don’t. She’s given you a hard enough time as it is. If she has any sense she’ll go down some conventional routes to find friends.’

We resume our tasks for a little longer then meet up at the pavilion, as we always do, for tea, cake and chat, sitting around in the sunshine…

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com