The Sails Turn

By Jenni Thornley

During the story, derelict Gatesby Windmill is restored with the discovery of documents leading to an investigation into the lives of the family who lived at the windmillin the 1850’s, and their neighbours.
Further restoration leads to a more sinister discovery and gradually a 150 year old mystery is pieced together.
Relationships develop as people discover more about each other and the past

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jenni Thornley
• Release date: Jan 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458056771

Jenni Thornley

I was born in Port Stanley, Falkland Islands before returning to England with the rest of my family aged three. I left school after A levels and worked for NatWest bank for almost 20 years. I completed an Open University correspondence degree in Natural Sciences during this time. I then worked as administrator at a nursing home for four years before deciding on a change in life. I went to New Zealand for nine months completing a Post Graduate Diploma in Resource Studies before returning to eventually find another administrative position, this time with the RSPB at Otmoor in Oxfordshire. After nearly three years there, I moved to Carnforth in Lancashire to work at the RSPB Leighton Moss nature reserve. While working here I discovered an interest in writing and after taking a evening course in Creative Writing for a year, my other students and I started the CG Jelly Friskers writing group and I have completed three novels since then.

Book preview

The Sail’s Turn

By Jenni Thornley

Copyright 2011 Jenni Thornley

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Chapter One

Gatesby Windmill

Professor Cork unlocked the door at the base of the windmill and looked up at the sky as it began to turn an orange crimson, the sun rising on a new dawn. The night waned, overwhelmed by the glow. Wispy clouds lit from below, shone with bright yellow streaks. The sky gradually turned first a pale then more intense blue as the morning wore on promising a warm summer’s day.

During this progression the windmill at the top of the little hill transformed from a mysterious dark silhouette, standing starkly against the brightness of the glorious sunrise, to a more mundane piece of derelict Victorian machinery. Without its sails, it looked like the stump of some desolate pre-historic monument. Sensationalists said it was haunted.

The windmill had had several owners since it was rebuilt in the 1840’s and was now owned by the history Professor Paul Cork who had great ambitions for restoring it, putting it back to practical use and hopefully making money from it as a visitor attraction. These ambitions were a few years away from fruition. The professor had bought the windmill three years before for various reasons: an investment, a challenge, a positive way of contributing to the local community, preserving history, and a way of bringing that history to life. He could go on. If he was honest, it was love at first sight.

Forty years ago, Paul had been a surprise to his bank manager father and teacher mother, born to them in their mid thirties when they were content to be childless. Guided more than brought up, his father had lost interest in him when it became obvious he would not be making finance his career. His mother, always devoted to her husband, left Paul to his own devises and he immersed himself in children’s stories; The Three Musketeers, Treasure Island, Oliver Twist and other adventures which took him away from his dull home life. His fondness for history grew from these early, romantic and imaginative insights into times gone by.

His parents were proud though not demonstrably so when he achieved his doctorate and had two books published. He enjoyed research, but had an aptitude for lecturing, being personable to look at, speaking in a Radio Three voice, and with an ability to express his enthusiasm to any audience; he consequently travelled widely.

His father succumbed to liver cancer in his seventy fifth year after various protracted illnesses and his mother followed a couple of months later being unable to live without the man with whom she had shared over fifty years of her life.

Having decided that reaching forty meant he should settle in one place, and on achieving his present position of lecturer in eighteenth and nineteenth century British social history at Lincoln University, Paul had driven around the local area looking for a home. In the village of Gatesby fifteen miles away, he found Mill Cottage with its adjacent windmill for sale. His first visit, on a dull, wet and windy day, meant he had not seen it at its best, but walking up the slope connecting the cottage to the windmill he was immediately taken with the potential of the place. The sails were in place but in bad repair, the mechanisms were rotted away, rusted or missing, and the outhouses all needed some work, but the structures were sound. None of this put him off; he had bought it straight away. He could visualise it complete and working; the white sails contrasting with the massive black bulk of the windmill itself, leisurely turning in a good stiff breeze. What his parents would have thought of him spending their hard earned and carefully invested money on an old cottage and derelict windmill did not concern him, he was just grateful he had the money.

To achieve his dream, any restoration project would depend on volunteers and new local friends. Fortunately for him, the windmill was looked on with fondness by the majority of villagers and they were prepared to put some effort in to prevent it from coming to a sad end. Three years ago, the vicar had introduced Paul to two of his main supporters one wet wintry Sunday afternoon in the local pub.

‘Ted Drabble, a skilful carpenter and joiner,’ said the vicar, indicating a tall strong man, a bit younger than Paul, leaning against the bar. ‘Don’t take any notice of that expression,’ continued the vicar, ‘he always looks like he’s sucking a lemon, but he’s one of the nicest chaps you’ll ever meet.’ Paul looked at the man, whose face looked as if life had been kind to him, wearing dark blue overalls spattered in varnish and oil stains, with curls of wood attached in odd places. He was talking closely to another slightly shorter older man whose distinguished face wore a smile below a receding line of fair hair.

‘His friend’s Jim Stevens, self-employed electrician and a godsend to this little place.’

Paul smiled his thanks, walked over to introduce himself, and using all the charm he could muster, he explained who he was and what he wanted. ‘I understand from Reverend Benedict that you’re just the men I’m looking for,’ he said, beaming warmly. Ted and Jim turned to view the newcomer, glancing at the smiling vicar as he left the pub.

‘You’re the professor; the one who’s bought the windmill,’ observed Ted. Jim nodded agreement.

‘No secrets in this village,’ said Paul with a grin. ‘I’m the madman who’s bought a windmill in serious need of repair, but without the necessary skills to do much about it,’ he continued, still grinning happily.

‘And you’re hoping to find some equally mad people to help you, I suppose,’ said Ted, waving an almost empty pint glass in front of him. Catching the barman’s eye, Paul bought three pints and the gentlemen retired to a table by the fire to have further discussions.

Ted would be happy to avoid the rows and squabbles on Eastenders each evening, and lend his considerable talents to a worthy project. Always good with his hands, he had enough experience of making unusual things to take repairing a windmill in his stride. Jim Stevens would be just as happy to take on a challenge and lend a hand whenever needed. He volunteered his family too and had been helping Ted on and off for the last three years.

~~~

Later on that promising summer’s morning, Paul stood at the village Post Office counter. ‘We could sell postcards and guide books, once you’re up and running with it,’ offered Mrs Potts enthusiastically. With her husband, she was the inquisitive lady who ran the business. ‘I was so pleased when we heard you’re doing up the mill, and it’s such a good idea to try to turn it into a business,’ she added batting her eyes at Paul. Tall, slim and handsome, he innocently made women of all ages go weak at the knees. His lightly tanned face was framed by the long fringe of his otherwise short brown hair, and he greeted her comments with his usual contented smile which carried to his dark hazel eyes. Mrs Potts turned to her husband and cooed, ‘don’t we think it’s a good idea Archie? It’s been there for as long as I can remember.’

‘It’s only been there since 1843,’ said her cheery rotund husband, with a twinkle in his eye. Mrs Potts missed the implication and carried on, leaning across the counter the better to hear her customer through the window.

‘Thank you Grace. I’m a way off post cards just yet, but I’ll bear it in mind,’ grinned Paul, waving goodbye as he left with his book of first class stamps.

‘Can’t think why he’d waste so much money on a white elephant like that old mill. Waste of time too,’ said the next customer petulantly as he reached the counter window.

‘Don’t be like that, Mick,’ said Grace. ‘It’ll be lovely having the windmill put back together and working again. It’ll bring people into the village … be good for trade.’

‘That’s your opinion. There are plenty of people like me who think the place should be pulled down – dangerous eyesore. I’ll have a pack of a hundred second class sticky stamps, if you don’t mind, and this needs to go registered,’ said Mick, scowling and grumpy, handing over a small Jiffy bag. He left shortly afterwards without another word. Grace and Archie were left to exchange a knowing look; Mick did not like change in the village.

~~~

Ted had been restoring the four thirty-four foot long windmill sails in the workshop at his home, Ivy Cottage which was just along the road from the windmill as you head towards Lincoln. Paul, being astute, had suggested a kind of apprenticeship to his university students who wanted to learn useful craft skills. This meant Ted would now be challenged with regular help from students who had just completed their first year history class, but who would require training and supervision. They included Tony Hill, Joe Mitchell and Patrick Redman.

As Paul was leaving the Post Office that morning, the students were travelling through Willington and Gatesby in Pat’s tired old green Peugeot 205 towards Ivy Cottage.

Gatesby, a small picturesque village of a few dozen houses, stretched along the main road with a few narrow lanes leading off to stone built cottages. This main road, which meandered through the village, linked Lincoln to the more modern and populace Willington about three and half miles away. Gatesby nestled on the westward facing slope of the Lincoln Edge escarpment overlooking the flat River Trent flood plain with its patchwork of multicoloured fields, scattered villages and isolated woodlands. An ideal place for a windmill, as it caught the weather, good or bad.

The Gatesby inhabitants were a mixture of families who had lived there for generations and new people; the former being the majority. Most of the houses were over fifty years old, even the newest were a row of five terraced houses built by the Council in the 1960’s on the edge of the village green, all now in private ownership.

Character would be a good word to describe Gatesby; it had character. While the Vicarage and Old School House no longer served their original function, there was still the pub and Post Office. Trees and hedges lined the road and lanes, villagers took pride in their gardens, and children were usually playing happily with each other, running wild. Grumbles centred on the occasional driver going too fast, anyone seen dropping litter or worse, cutting the lawn or trimming a hedge on a Sunday. Without taking too much notice of the rest of the world, the village got along peacefully enough and was a close community.

Willington, by contrast was modernising rapidly and expanding. The new infinitely outdid the old here, rushing about busily being popular. It boasted a large village green, a comfortable village hall, and rugby, cricket and golf clubs, so was not short of amenities. The two villages shared these happily. Willington folk tended to look on their Gatesby neighbours with affection, as one might an elderly and eccentric aunt. Gatesby residents, if they thought of Willington folk at all, considered them brash and loud. Not exactly a favourite nephew, more a distant cousin, twice removed.

‘How did we get talked into this?’ Pat asked irritably as he negotiated his way around a large badly parked tractor sticking out of a field entrance.

‘Best way of getting into the professor’s good books …helping him repair his old windmill … just in case our academic work isn’t up to scratch,’ said a smirking Tony from the back seat with his earthy rural accent.

‘It would have been easier just to study harder,’ observed Pat assuredly.

‘But not as much fun,’ said Joe from the passenger seat as he watched a baler working in a field, dust and chaff smoking into the air. Usually sure of himself, Joe was pleased to have the opportunity to be involved. ‘Imagine what it’s going to be like when we tell people we helped to repair a windmill. Cool,’ he said with a broad grin.

‘How did you get interested in history anyway, Tony?’ asked Pat over his shoulder.

‘Came as a bit of a surprise when I discovered there was more than one civil war in England,’ explained Tony, watching a woman with a pony on a lunge rein as they drove by. His cheeky chubby face and mop of bleached blond hair matched a playful disposition. While fond of eating he was not fat exactly, just rounder than his bean pole friends. ‘I found out as much as I could about the earlier ones. Fancy having a king called Stephen,’ he chuckled. ‘What about you, Joe?’

Joe, in baggy jeans and a T shirt looked more student-like. A stringy youth, lean and wiry with long raven dark hair, his thin stubbly face occasionally took on a thoughtful expression. ‘I want to find if what they taught me at school is true or not,’ he answered. ‘It all seemed so distant. And I like old stuff.’ His parents had moved to New Zealand when he was three. Having returned ‘home’, he hoped to discover if he had missed anything. ‘What about you Pat?’ he asked for completeness.

‘Old machinery fascinates me. People have always invented and developed machinery then someone else comes along and improves things. Finally we arrive at the technology we have today.’ Pat was a local boy whose family had lived in one village or the other for generations. His house-proud busy mother insisted on well dressed tidy sons, but once he was out of her sight, he would rough up his sandy blond hair into spikes and pull his shirt out of his jeans.

He turned the car in at the driveway of Ivy Cottage and pulled up. ‘As for the windmill, I’d love to see it all fitted together and the old mechanism working again,’ he said, voicing how each of them felt. ‘I just hadn’t planned on doing it myself,’ he added as he and the others got out of the car.

Ted, accompanied by Paul, welcomed them to the workshop - a large shed formerly a stable and cart store. As would be expected for a professional, it was well kitted out with carpentry and joinery tools; drills, lathes, planes, saws, and chisels, and he kept it reasonably clean and tidy. He could have several jobs on the go at a time – a wardrobe, a bookcase, picture frames, a cocktail cabinet - scattered about different workbenches or shelves, in various stages of development with glue or varnish drying, or waiting for another section to be added. The room smelled of sawdust from various types of wood; ash, beech, oak and the soft woods, pine, apple, pear, and hornbeam used on the windmill project. Being a sensual tactile place, it encouraged the running of fingers over surfaces.

With the aid of photographs and drawings of another restored and working windmill, he began by explaining what the windmill would look like when fully restored and the parts the young men would be helping with.

‘At the top of the mill is the dome shaped cap, carrying the sails which are attached to this horizontal oak beam known as the windshaft. The windshaft turns the brake wheel,’ he began, pointing to an illustration of a large, toothed oak wheel.

‘How do you get the sails to face into the wind?’ asked Joe curiously.

‘The steering mechanism is the fantail,’ replied Ted, pointing to a circle of eight white painted vanes, supported in a frame securing them to the cap. ‘This all rotates on a cast iron curb running round the top of the mill,’ he gestured to indicate a horizontal ring with the dome resting on top; the iron parts were being made elsewhere.

‘The brake wheel in the middle of the windshaft meshes with this smaller gear called the wallower which turns the vertical shaft.’ He pointed to a gear at an angle below the brake wheel. ‘The wallower is made from cast iron. The wooden cogs of the brake wheel need to be positioned to meet the cogs of the wallower. That’s one of the things I’ll need your help with,’ he said, looking round at faces with expressions of delight, horror and amazement.

‘Everything so far is at the top here, the cap or dust floor.’ He pointed to the top floor. The upright shaft ran down the middle of the windmill through the next two floors. ‘The floor below is where the grain bins are housed in the imaginatively named bins floor.’ He smiled at the students.

A shadow cast from the doorway distracted his flow. The silhouette of an average sized woman with shoulder length curly honey coloured hair walked in to see who was in the workshop. Wearing a washed-out oversized T shirt displaying wrens on a bird table, pale blue cropped trousers and canvas sandals, she gave the impression of being comfortable and very much at home.

‘Hello Sandra,’ said Ted, smiling at the newcomer. ‘Have you met my apprentices?’ he asked. Walking to meet them, Sandra relaxed, remembering the young men were expected, and gave a disarmingly warm smile, lighting up her previously ordinary face.

‘Tony, Joe and Pat,’ said Ted, pointing to each of them in turn. ‘This is Sandra my wife. You are not to take advantage of her kind and generous nature … that’s my job,’ he added with a smile. They all laughed.

‘Hello everyone,’ said Sandra, smiling. ‘I didn’t recognize the Peugeot and wondered who was in the workshop with Ted.’

‘That’s mine. I can move it if it’s in the way,’ muttered Pat defensively. Sandra waved this away as unimportant.

‘Sandra knows a lot about the windmill project,’ said Ted proudly. Sandra shook her head with a demure grin. ‘Perhaps you would like to explain the next bit?’ he asked, to prove his point.

She smiled shyly but moved towards the bench. ‘Where have you got to?’ she asked. Ted explained they were still at the top of the windmill.

‘The bins floor is beneath,’ she said in a soft musical voice, ‘and the floor below is the stones floor. Here the grain travels down chutes from the grain bins above,’ she said, pointing out long narrow sloping wooden boxes. ‘These feed grain to the stones which are turned by the upright shaft, powered by the sails,’ she said, following the chutes to the stones on the picture.

Ted took over again at this point. ‘Larger mills could have up to four pairs of stones, but Paul is settling for two pairs to start with, due to their high cost, as much as anything,’ he said smirking at Paul.

Sandra took up the story again. ‘A wooden skirt called a tun surrounds each pairs of stones to catch the milled flour. Below them is the meal floor. That’s where the roughly ground flour is collected for sorting in the dresser. The bottom floor will be storage for grain and flour.’ Ted and Sandra smiled at each other. She did not usually take much notice of his work but found this project particularly interesting.

‘So, which bits do you want us to help with?’ asked Tony enthusiastically. The only craftwork he had previously done was a wobbly stool in woodwork at school. To think he would be helping to repair a windmill was awesome.

‘He just wants you to hold the chisels,’ said Pat to Joe under his breath. Ted heard, but chose to ignore him.

‘I’ve almost finished working on the sails,’ he replied, to the student’s disappointment. ‘The fantail still needs a bit of work, but mostly you’ll be helping building staircases so they are better suited to lots of visitors,’ said Ted, winking at Paul, ‘and the wooden gears to fit the wrought iron cogs, and then the grain bins, stone tuns and dresser.’ The boys all looked pleased at the thought of sharing in work which sounded responsible and real. Ted and Paul exchanged a dubious look. Sandra left them to it, still smiling.

Joe then asked the question his mother had posed when he had told her what he would be doing with his spare time. ‘We don’t mill wheat in windmills now,’ he began, but suddenly thinking this was not especially tactful, he added, ‘commercially, at least. Why is that?’

Paul answered this question. ‘Once steam power took off and all sorts of applications were being found for it beyond the original pumping of mines, they discovered grain could be milled between rollers on a larger scale and in a much more uniform and consistent way than relying upon an unpredictable power source – wind.’

‘So the windmill can never compete with mass produced flour milling now?’ asked Joe for clarification.

‘Competing with modern roller mills is not the reason for this restoration,’ confirmed Paul. ‘It’s to restore the past; rebuild a piece of machinery that can still be used for the purpose for which it was designed and interpret the past for visitors. Does that make sense?’ he asked. Joe nodded, uncertainly. Why would anyone pay good money for flour from a windmill? Coming from New Zealand, he had not yet come to terms with the strong English attachment to tradition; stone ground flour must make tastier bread.

Paul continued, forgetting his students were not in the lecture hall. ‘Windmills and watermills have been used to grind grain in England since Roman times. It is a tried a tested, much improved technology which served us well until the invention of steam engines. This windmill was rebuilt from a previous old post mill at just the point in history when our society was changing from an agricultural to an industrial one. If anything, it’s a symbol of that change and represents the people who lived through the difficult transition period.’

Joe thought about this for a few moments, looking at the drawings for the windmill. While it looked complicated on paper and in practice a lot of skill and judgement was needed to produce good quality flour, it was a fairly simple arrangement of gears, making use of a natural, truly renewable power source and, on reflection was something worth restoring.

~~~

Later that same bright August day, having found the windmill door unlocked as promised, another of Paul’s students, Matt Stevens had brought his older brother David along to help at the windmill. Matt was naturally shy despite youthful good looks and a friendly open face which usually wore a smile.

‘Library closed today, is it?’ asked David as they worked their way slowly across the bins floor, the third floor.

‘I was there this morning,’ replied Matt before he realised David was being sarcastic.

Matt had been interested in history for some years now, having a fascination for old books and buildings, and often buried himself away in one library or another. Jim had known Matt would become involved with the restoration once the windmill had been purchased by someone who wanted to repair it not tear it down.

By contrast, David was a modern man. Taller and broader than his younger brother, with short straw coloured hair spiked up at the front, he had a handsome well proportioned face and misty grey eyes. Interested in up to date gadgets and computers, he only truly appreciated things with buttons and screens, although he liked to push at boundaries and helping with the windmill was certainly something new. This attitude also explained his long list of girlfriends.

Over the last few weeks, they and their father Jim had set about clearing out some of the upper floors of the windmill; it had been used for storage for years and was crammed full, mostly of junk. They removed and burned rotten wood, mouldy grain and corn sacks, and finally reached the floorboards. Each of the floors would be removed making it easier to return the rebuilt and restored machinery. Paul intended to retain as much of the original timber as possible for preservation and cost saving purposes. Ted would remove and replace the worst with oak flooring salvaged from an old house in Willington being converted into modern flats.

‘There’s an old box, bit like a biscuit tin,’ advised David. ‘It’s full of papers and stuff.’ Matt made his way between boxes of rusted nails, bent saws and hammer heads.

‘Looks interesting. Pop it over there and we’ll have a proper look when we’ve finished here,’ he suggested, indicating a cupboard near the ladder.

Their mother Alice called in the afternoon with a flask of coffee and some homemade biscuits. Wrapping her dark golden hair in a scarf before carefully climbing the ladders to the stones floor below where they were working, she cleaned the small-paned windows set into the curved walls at each compass face, two being opposite on each floor. The stunning view took in the countryside in all directions. She said she would mention this to Paul as one of the selling points to potential visitors and would offer to do illustrations of the views, labelling points of interest. She had already spotted the yard needed an overhaul and chatted about the various options with her sons.

‘I think we could dig a border in front of this middle outhouse, with baskets and window boxes on the others. They won’t get so much light so could be a challenge,’ she said to Matt as the three of them walked together next door to Mill Cottage. A housewife and mother looking much younger than her mid-forties, she was immensely practical and successfully tackled most things.

‘Good. You like a challenge, don’t you mum,’ said Matt smiling cheekily. He flinched as she clocked him round the head affectionately with her duster. Paul had returned from his visit to Ted’s workshop and had just put the kettle on to make tea. He welcomed his friends and asked how they had been getting along.

‘Mum’s cleaned the windows,’ said Matt, cheerfully. Paul looked at him quizzically.

‘Good,’ he said. Alice raised a well shaped eyebrow. Aware what others were doing, having cleaned the windows did not seem much of a contribution.

‘She’s got lots of ideas too,’ added David, threateningly.

‘Such as?’ asked Paul with trepidation, as he filled the teapot with boiling water. Alice’s ideas more often than not came to fruition and she usually carried everyone along in her wake.

‘Views from the windows, a garden, displays next to the mechanisms, that kind of thing,’ put in Matt quickly before Alice could open her mouth. Her grey eyes gave him a venomous look. Paul gave her a worried frown.

He put out four mugs on a tray with a jug of milk and a plate of Alice’s almond biscuits and they walked through to his garden, making themselves comfortable on the padded wooden furniture on the patio. As Paul was no gardener, having neither the time nor the inclination, his back garden beyond the patio was mostly lawn with the overgrown remains of once decorative herbaceous borders surrounded by an untidy hawthorn hedge. The paddock to the right behind the windmill was rented to a village family for their daughter’s pony.

‘I wouldn’t want you to go to too much trouble, Alice,’ Paul said to her cautiously, setting down the tray.

‘I would enjoy it,’ she stated simply, making herself comfortable on the bench between David and Matt. Paul settled on the chair opposite. Alice poured the tea.

‘I can’t afford lots of interpretation material all over the place,’ Paul replied attempting to ward her off. Instead, this made her concerned.

‘Is it really going to be so much of a burden, financially?’ she asked, frowning.

‘Well, I shall probably get a lot thinner,’ said Paul cheerfully, eating a biscuit.

‘Then why did you buy the place?’ she asked exasperated, eating one herself. A flock of twenty starlings bobbed and bounced over the garden towards the paddock, chattering to each other as they went.

‘It’s brilliant!’ he exclaimed by way of reply. ‘If you don’t understand history …’ he started, but thought better of it. ‘We’re restoring the past; making it work again. It will pay, eventually, I know it will … Although that’s not really what it’s about for me, I’m realistic enough to know it has to be a business, not a hobby.’

‘So you’ve had to borrow lots of money?’ she asked, tentatively.

‘A bit. I got money from my parent’s investments and selling my flat and their house in Oxfordshire, but I have grants for a lot of the work from the Lottery Fund and English Heritage. It’s a case of putting the restoration across in the right way. Improving local facilities … Community project … Skills and Development Programme. Just make it sound like every man and his dog is going to benefit and I’m fine.’ David and Matt were uncharacteristically quiet eating biscuits, drinking tea and listening.

‘In the meantime you’re depending on the goodwill of neighbours like us and Ted Drabble,’ Alice pointed out. He gave her an appraising look.

‘Yes. But I’m not going to Paris, Milan, New York or Venice because I like the architecture …although I do. I get paid for lecturing and that helps pay for this,’ he gestured in the direction of the windmill the other side of his garage.

‘So you’re sure you’re going to be OK, one day,’ she said, sounding unconvinced and apprehensive.

He was touched by her tone. ‘I have it in hand, don’t worry.’ They were all quiet for a moment. Bees buzzed amongst the tall delphiniums and campanulas, blue tits nipped around the hazel bushes looking for caterpillars, and willow herb seeds drifted across from the paddock on the breeze.

‘Have you thought about selling shares?’ she asked, thinking Ted and Jim might be interested. Yes he had. The idea of losing overall control, even to his friends, did not appeal.

‘I don’t want to do that unless absolutely necessary. I’m fine, honest. You can invite me round for dinner every so often if it would make you feel better,’ he said, smiling, knowing she was a far superior cook to anything he could produce.

‘I’ll invite you for lunch when you look like you’re fading away,’ she looked him up and down, ‘which doesn’t look like it will be any time soon.’

He fell back in his chair and held his hand over his heart as if stabbed. With a pained expression he replied in a soft voice. ‘You can be so cruel.’ She snorted, disbelieving. The guests rose and walked round to the front garden where Alice ushered her sons through the gate and they walked home together.

‘Paul’s quite fond of you, isn’t he,’