‘Donny, where is all this going? What is it you wanted to ask me?’

‘Well, seeing as you’re famous … well, known anyway … I wondered if you could help me. You know, tell me how to make a show. Practising it, and getting the right sort of costumes to wear, and how to get people to come and see it. Because I do think it’s important that people come, if we go to all the trouble of doing it, don’t you? I thought maybe we could use the hall here if it’s free, and give the ticket money to charity …’

‘What’s all this then?’ Tom had returned, carrying a tray laden with cups and food, which he placed carefully on the table. ‘Did I hear something about charity?’

Donny went to stand but Tom put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and eased him back down. ‘Don’t go on my account, lad.’

‘Donny was just running an idea by me,’ Madi explained, picking up a knife and spreading a good-sized splash of jam onto a big fat scone. They looked so inviting, the sandwiches could wait. ‘A very good idea, as it happens, about putting on some sort of a performance here in the hall, for charity, but I’m afraid I won’t be staying here long enough to be much help. Maybe it’s something you’d like to be involved in, Tom? You did tell me how much you fancied getting into amateur theatre in some way.’

‘Me? I wouldn’t know where to start!’

‘How hard can it be? A group of eager teenagers who just need a bit of adult guidance, that’s all. And what a great way to keep them occupied, and off the streets.’ Tom didn’t look convinced. ‘And away from the bell tower!’

‘Ah, now you’re talking.’ He winked at her. ‘There is a small stage in there, as it happens. And a little back room that could work as a changing area. We did have a panto once, years ago, that went down very well. Cinderella, if I remember rightly. My wife helped make the costumes. All the brainchild of our old postmistress, Aggie – a sweet old thing she was – but somehow the impetus got lost after she died. God, that must be all of twenty years back. How time flies …’

‘Would you, Mr Bishop?’ Donny said, eyeing the bowl of cream with undisguised interest. ‘Only, it’s not something we can do on our own. And my mum and dad are always too busy, and not really into that sort of thing at all.’

‘I don’t know. I’ve never …’

‘What was it you were saying to me, Tom, about living your dreams, about grabbing the here and now? Go on, give it a try. The smell of the greasepaint, remember? Something you’ve always wanted to do. I’ll help you get started, while I’m still here.’ She gazed at him as he wielded his spoon, plonking a large helping of clotted cream onto his scone. ‘And why are you putting the cream on first?’