John Daynton, the oldest member of the Council, was on his feet now, complaining in a high quavering voice about the inad­equacy of the compensation made to the subject of a com­pulsory purchase order. He seemed to be totally unaware that he himself had approved the compulsory purchase order in com­mittee. No one would point this out to him; he wouldn’t understand if they did. He was nearing eighty, a widower, and had lost his only son in the war: the only place where now the poor old fool could be happy was the Council Chamber. Here he had attended every Council meeting for the last forty-five years: here, after each meeting, the thick dark hair had thinned a little, the teeth had loosened a little, the back had bent a little, the flesh had fallen away a little farther from the bones. In those forty-five years the ceiling would have been replastered, the oak panelling revarnished, the red carpet replaced, and new portraits of past Chairmen presented to join those which now covered two walls. And, as long as I kept out of gaol and voted as I was told to vote, then one day I’d be up there on that dais. I’d have my portrait on the wall and my name on the tablet under the Warley coat-of-arms.

Daynton had at last sat down. George Aisgill in his capacity of Chairman of the Housing Committee had said something smooth and consoling about the balance between the private good and the public good always being maintained by the Hous­ing Committee, difficult though he frankly admitted it could be . . .

Norah, who was sitting in the section of the Chamber re­served for the public, took out her notebook at this point. Graff­ham, who this evening was wearing a navy blue blazer, dark grey flannels, a white shirt and a navy blue tie – the effect was of a uniform with the insignia of rank ripped off – took out a note­book too.

The meeting was nearing its end now; it had all gone as it had been expected to go, everyone – first and foremost Councillor Lampton – had voted as they had been expected to vote. Graffham scribbled away busily for ten minutes, then stuffed his notebook into his pocket. He touched Norah’s hand and whispered something to her; she smiled. I stared at her: she caught my eye and the smile vanished. Deliberately I continued to stare at her: I wanted to disturb her, at least to make her wonder if there was a smudge on her face or her slip showing. A little to my surprise she did not take out a mirror or look down at her skirt: after a while she returned my stare, but the expression in the large grey eyes was one I’d never encountered before. Now it was I who was beginning to feel embarrassment; I directed my attention to the agenda once more.