Olive Kerr heard of the outcome of the meeting in the village hall from her daughter, Maggie, who was a barmaid at the Castle Hotel and heard all the gossip. People who had left the meeting early arrived at the pub just before closing time and were eager to talk. Charlie Elliot figured largely in the stories. Maggie passed on a carefully edited version of the events to her mother, but Olive was still indignant.

“He was always a troublemaker, that Charlie Elliot,” she said. “I don’t know why your father had to take him on.” The words were like a refrain; she had spoken them so often before. “ He’s the last person you’d think Tom would want to work with.”

Maggie said nothing. She knew the criticism was directed as much at her as at Tom. The two women were in the kitchen at the back of the house. Although it was only mid-afternoon it was almost dark and the wind blew sand onto the window so that it sounded like hail. Maggie’s sons and her father were watching football on the television in another room.

“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “If I could find us somewhere to live, we’d move out. I’ll phone the council again on Monday.”

“You’re welcome here as long as you want,” Olive said, but she was tight-lipped and angry, and Maggie knew it was not only the overcrowding that made her so tense.

The older woman began to put on a coat, punching out the sleeves with her fists, tearing at the zip with furious fingers.

“Where are you going?” Maggie asked.

“To the Tower,” Olive said. “It’s St. David’s Day and the family are coming. I promised Mrs. Parry I’d do her a couple of extra hours before dinner.”

“Shall I give you a lift up in the car?” Maggie asked. “ It’s going to rain any minute.”

“No,” Olive said. “The walk’ll do me good.”

“Take care then,” Maggie said, but her mother had already gone and there was no reply.

Peter Laidlaw divided his year by the times spent at Brinkbonnie. When friends at school boasted about package tours to the Greek islands or Disneyland, he considered them with scorn. No place in the world had the magic of his visits to the Tower.

His father, Max, was a general practitioner in Otterbridge, and the family lived in a big Victorian terrace with tricycles in the hall and gerbils in the kitchen. Nine-year-old Peter was happy enough at home, but his parents were always busy and the house was often crowded with people he did not know. His parents promised him their attention, then found excuses for not fulfilling the promise. His latest campaign was for a tree house in the ash at the bottom of the garden. The excuse for not building it was a rusting tandem that had stood outside since the twins were born.