Since her trip to Scarsea Tina had not been able to settle. She wanted to see Adam again. They had not made a definite arrangement to meet at Rushy, but she thought it possible that he would be there. It had become urgent that she should see him again.

Rob followed her up the stairs to his room. The lino was gritty under his bare feet. He wondered why she always wore such dramatic clothes.

“You can’t go to Ella’s party like that. Everyone will be very smart. Even me. Ella won’t invite you if you’re not wearing dress.”

For the first time since he had known her, she lost her self-possession.

“I didn’t know what to wear.” she said. “I haven’t got anything. Nothing suitable. Perhaps I’d better not come.”

He felt quite sorry for her—quite paternal, he thought mockingly. “I think my girlfriend left some things here when she went,” he said. “You must be about the same size.”

They rummaged in a big wardrobe and found a dress, in a peasant style which would go with her boots. It was made of dark green velvet, with a flowered yoke. She tried it on secretly in the kitchen, while he dressed, then folded it carefully, lovingly into a carrier bag.

They got a lift almost immediately and Rob congratulated himself that he had thought to invite Tina to accompany him. They did not speak as they travelled. Both were preoccupied with Rushy, the evening ahead, and what could be achieved there.

Sally had been invited by Ella to the film show and party. Ella had been forceful and Sally had accepted, intending to find an excuse not to go later. She had not seriously considered that she would attend. Then Ella arranged a babysitter for her, and asked her to help to serve food and wash up, so that she could not refuse to go without appearing to mind helping. Ella asked the Palmer-Joneses to drive Sally from Fenquay to the church hall and it was impossible then for her to stay away.

Once it became inevitable that she would go to the film, Sally was surprised to realize that she might enjoy the evening. She had woken up excited, because there was something different to look forward to. She had not dreamed about the letters. There had been no more of them and she had begun to dismiss them, to believe again that they had been sent by some crank in the village. She had still not reported the letters to the police. That afternoon, while Barnaby was sleeping, she prepared for the evening. She washed her hair and ironed her prettiest summer dress. She acted almost as if she had someone to dress up for.

All day Bernard Cranshaw looked forward to the film with nervous anticipation. It was, in a special way, his film. Of all the villagers he had been most involved, and he felt that the film was a celebration of his work on the marsh. It proved that the RSPB recognized the importance of his work there, but he felt that the help he had given in making the film would not be appreciated, that other people would take the credit. He was not worried that the film would be badly received but was desperately anxious that he would not be acknowledged as the moving force behind the project. He had brooded about it, and believed that other people were conspiring to take the glory due to him.