A spate of passionate defiance broke from Miss Cost. Her voice was pitched high and she stared at some object beyond Miss Emily’s left shoulder. ‘You can’t stop us!’ she cried. ‘You can’t! You can’t prevent people walking up a hill. You can’t prevent them singing. I’ve made inquiries. We’re not causing a disturbance and it’s all authorized by the Mayor. He’s part of it. Ask him! Ask the Mayor’! Ask the Mayor. We’ve got hundreds and hundreds of people coming and you can’t stop them. You can’t. You can’t!’

Her voice cracked and she drew breath. Her hands moved to her chest.

Into the silence that followed there crept a very small and eerie sound: a faint, rhythmic squeak. It came from Miss Cost.

Miss Emily heard it. After a moment she said, with compassion: ‘I am sorry. I shall leave you. I shall not attempt to prevent your Festival. It must be the last but I shall not prevent it.’

As she prepared to leave, Miss Cost, now struggling for breath, gasped after her.

‘You wicked woman! This is your doing.’ She beat her chest. ‘You’ll suffer for it. More than I do. Mark my words! You’ll suffer.’

Miss Emily turned to look at her. She sat on a stool behind the counter. Her head nodded backwards and forwards with her laboured breathing.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Miss Emily asked. ‘You have an attack –’

‘I haven’t! I haven’t! Go away. Wicked woman! Go away.’

Miss Emily, greatly perturbed, left the shop. As she turned up from the jetty, a boy shambled out of the shadows, stared at her for a moment, gave a whooping cry and ran up the steps. It was Wally Trehern.

The encounter with Miss Cost had tired her. She was upset. It had, of course, been a long day and there were still those steps to be climbed. There was a bench half-way up and she decided to rest there for a few minutes before making the final ascent. Perhaps she would ask for an early dinner in her room and go to bed afterwards. It would never do to let herself get overdone. She took the steps slowly, using her umbrella as a staff and was rather glad when she reached the bench. It was a relief to sit there and observe the foreshore, the causeway and the village.

Down below, at the end of the jetty, a group of fishermen stood talking. The police-sergeant, she noticed, had joined them. They seemed to be looking up at her. ‘I daresay it’s got about,’ she thought, ‘who I am and all the rest of it. Bah!’