The knight had his foot on the dragon’s neck. He was wearing yellow armour with a red cross on his shield and his sword was nearly as tall as he was. There wasn’t any blood on the sword, but the dragon was obviously dead. It was navy blue with a long corkscrew tail; it looked pathetic rather than dangerous. The knight had pushed his visor back; he looked very young and serious. In the other window he’d taken his helmet off and was kneeling before a young girl with long black hair and a jewelled crown. Though the colours were on the crude side the windows weren’t without charm. Barbara would have liked them, though perhaps she would feel sorry for the dragon. But perhaps it would be a mistake ever to take her to Sindram Grange. It was better that it should remain a castle for her just as, to judge from the suits of armour and swords and tapestries and the rest of it, it had always remained for Tom Sindram. He’d made his money in the twentieth century in Leddersford; but here at Sindram Grange he’d been a robber baron of the Middle Ages or, which was more likely, a handsome young knight who killed dragons.

I was losing the thread of my talk; I paused and took a sip of water. “And at that one might almost leave it,” I said. “Partic­ularly on a fine summer’s evening. I’ve outlined the structure of local government. I’ve tried to give you a picture of what the coun­cillor actually does to justify his existence. Or her existence, as the case may be. But there’s just one thing I must say to you in conclusion . . .”

I looked at Norah, who was sitting at the back row with a young man in a bright red shirt, and lost the thread again. I looked away from her and for about three minutes told them that I could say much more about local government but that I was going to say just one thing more. I smiled at the audience and took another sip of water. They were looking fidgety: I would have to end and quickly.