Fred Elliot called for a vote on Alice Parry’s idea that they should put pressure on the council to fight the planning inspector’s decision. The motion was overwhelmingly carried and they settled down to form an action committee and to arrange a petition and letters to local councillors. When Alice left the hall to return to the Tower, it was four o’clock.

Outside the wind had strengthened and sand blew up from the street and stung her eyes. In the shelter of the high wall that surrounded the churchyard, she moved more quickly, almost running. She was glad to have attended the meeting—it was better, after all, than staying at home feeling guilty—but there would be a rush now to have everything ready before her visitors arrived and she felt overwhelmed by it all. Her nephews and their families always came to Brinkbonnie on St. David’s Day. It was a tradition that had begun when her husband was alive. He was a Welshman and had demanded that they celebrate the day. She was never sure how much the boys valued the effort she made but kept the tradition for her husband’s sake and because she knew the children enjoyed it. She especially enjoyed the company of the children, and as she grew older she thought she had more in common with them than she did with Max and James. She had never had a family.

She let herself in through the kitchen door at the back of the house and plugged in the kettle to make tea. Tea always had a calming effect. Then she began the preparations for dinner and was standing at the window, beating cream in a large glass bowl, when she saw a young woman walking down the drive. The woman, who was so young that to Alice she was a girl, had been in the village hall, though Alice did not recognise her as a local. As she approached the house she hesitated, uncertain which door to try. Alice opened the kitchen door.

“Yes,” she said. “Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Parry?” the woman said, though she must have known exactly who she was talking to. “ I’m sorry to disturb you. Could I speak to you for a few minutes?”

There was, Alice thought, something of the Gypsy about her. She had very dark hair and her clothes were untidy but exotic and very brightly coloured.

“I’m very busy,” Alice said, but something about the woman was familiar and she was curious. “ You’ll have to come into the kitchen.”

“My name’s Mary Raven,” the woman said. “ Could I talk to you? I’m a reporter with the Otterbridge Express.”