When Judy returned to the dining room, they were all still sitting at the dining table. Alice had switched on the lights and drawn the curtains. They were drinking coffee, their elbows on the table, and as she entered the room she expected to hear the familiar family gossip, the old stories about Anthony, about other St. David’s days, about James’s and Max’s childhoods.

But they were silent. She thought of Peter’s whispered question, “What’s wrong with Aunt Alice?,” and realised that Alice had always started the after-dinner conversations, bringing the others in until the whole family were included. Without Alice they had nothing to say to each other.

As Judy took her place at the table, Alice broke the silence.

“Carolyn,” she said. “I realise it’s not bedtime yet, pet, but would you mind going up to your room? I’m sure your mother will come up to see you later.”

Carolyn got up and drifted out without a word, but the adults were surprised. Weekends at Brinkbonnie were informal, chaotic affairs with the children wandering around in their nightclothes until midnight and the parents complaining that it was impossible then to return them to a normal routine.

“I want to talk to you,” Alice said, “about this development in the village. I feel strongly about it. I’m going to fight it.”

They looked at each other, amused. Why was she taking herself so seriously? She was famous for her involvement with environmental issues, something of a joke even to Judy, who supported her. Alice the Green, James called her, secretly, to Stella.

“It’s too late now,” James said. “You’ve sold the land.”

“It was in good faith,” Alice said, “for small, cheap houses in the village. People like Fred Elliot’s son who want to stay in the area. Not executive detached residences with double garages and two bathrooms.” She looked at James sharply. “ I expect your help,” she told him.

“There was no proper contract,” James said. “There’s nothing I can do.”

“You could run a story about it in the Express.”

“Everyone knows you’re my aunt. How seriously would that be taken?”

“You wouldn’t have to comment,” Alice raged. “Let me put my point of view and let the builder give his. The reader can make up his own mind who’s right.”

“You’re too late,” James said, so irritated that he lost his usual politeness. “The planning procedure’s over. The decision has been taken.”

“The council could appeal,” Alice insisted stubbornly. “ If they felt public opinion was against the development, they’d appeal against the planning inspector’s decision.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s no good. We carried the story when the plans first went before the council. I’m not going to do it again.”

“Then why did you send a reporter to the action meeting this afternoon?” Alice demanded. “What was Mary Raven doing here?”