“We’ve been discussing the paddock heligoland,” Miss Carson said immediately. “When I was on the island last I was appalled. It should be repaired at once. Charlie says that he can give us some wire mesh. Perhaps we could organize a working party.”

Of course, they would have that in common. They were passionate ringers. He thought that Jasmine was the schoolmistress of stand-up comics and cartoonists. She was big-busted and formidable in thick woollen stockings and lace-up boots. She climbed without fuss, without a hint of rheumatism, into the back of the Land Rover.

“If you want us to do the work, it’ll have to be soon. Mark goes to college again at the end of the month, and I’m very busy.”

Nick spoke aggressively, more loudly than was necessary.

How ungracious he is, John thought. He does do more than his fair share, but he enjoys it. I hope that he’s not going to be rude all weekend. Elizabeth does hate it.

But Miss Carson was disposed to be conciliatory.

“Of course,” she said. “You know that we depend on you and Mark. We must talk again about attracting new, younger members.”

That, too, was a perennial item on the agenda. We must attract new members, but we will not accept their new ideas or give them any responsibility. The observatory had recruited a number of schoolboys over the years, but only Mark and Nick were left. The others had drifted away, disillusioned by the slow pace of change on the island, the refusal to accept new ways of doing things, tempted by girlfriends, rare birds, beer. John wondered sometimes why Mark and Nick stayed. He suspected that Nick might enjoy the alliances and plotting as much as the older members did, but Mark was different. He had a wild and wicked sense of fun, a wide circle of friends, other interests.

As he always did, Charlie Todd climbed into the front seat, the only comfortable seat of the Land Rover, without giving anyone else the opportunity of doing so. John was never sure whether this lack of courtesy was caused by Charlie’s usual absentmindedness or by cunning. It was probably absentmindedness. He was a small, round man with curly white hair, like a doll’s wig, and a perpetually dazed but happy expression. People spoke to him slowly as if he were deaf, or very old, or a child. He could have been any age from fifty to seventy.

“George phoned up,” Jasmine Carson barked suddenly. “ He couldn’t get through to you. He won’t be able to get here until tomorrow, but he said not to pick him up. He’ll walk out straight after the tide.”

The others climbed in then, Pam Marshall and Jerry Packham taking care to sit on opposite sides of the Land Rover, Paul Derbyshire peevish about leg room and the splash of oil on the seat. It was all the same as every other committee weekend.

The south of the island had been leased to the council and was managed by its Recreation Services Department. This meant little more than that the litter bins were emptied occasionally and that the area was open to the public. In the summer families walked over to experience a tide on a real island, to picnic on the beach or on the grass. There was nothing else to do there and no one was there now. John noticed briefly that Pam was looking as glamorously well-kept as always, that Jerry was not staring at her with his usual rapt attention, then with an irrational progression of thought, wondered if Liz would marry him now. He knew her so well, yet could not predict how she would react if he asked her again. He was frightened of upsetting things between them. It was her secrecy, her power to surprise which attracted him so deeply.