Paddy opened the door on a buzz of conversation. The staffroom was elegantly proportioned, with a large bay window through which Lindsay could see the lights of Buxton twinkling in the darkness. About twenty women were assembled in small groups, standing by the log fire or sitting in clumps of unmatched and slightly shabby chairs. The walls were occupied by a collection of old prints of Derbyshire and a vast notice-board completely covered with bits of paper. The conversations did not pause when Lindsay and Paddy entered, though several heads turned briefly toward them. Paddy led Lindsay over to a young woman who was poring over a large book. She was slim but solidly built, and seemed bursting with a vitality that Lindsay only dreamed of these days. Her jet black curly hair, pink and white complexion, and dark blue eyes revealed her Highland ancestry and reminded Lindsay painfully of home.

Paddy interrupted the woman’s concentration. “Chris, drag yourself away from the exploded view of a cylinder head or whatever and meet Lindsay Gordon. Lindsay, this is Chris Jackson, our PE mistress.”

“Hello there,” said Chris, dropping her book. She still had the accent Lindsay had grown up with but had virtually lost under the layers of every other accent she had lived amongst. “Our tame journalist, eh? Well, before everybody else says so without meaning it, let me tell you how grateful I am for any help you can give us. We need to keep these playing fields, and not just to keep me in a job. We’d never get anything nearly so good within miles of here. It’s good of you to give us a hand, especially since you’ve no real connection with the place.”

Lindsay smiled, embarrassed by her sincerity. “I’m delighted to have the chance to see a place like this from the inside. And besides, I’m always glad of work, especially when it’s commissioned.”

Paddy broke into the pause which followed. “Chris, you and Lindsay are from the same part of the world. Lindsay’s from Invercross.”

“Really? I’d never have guessed. You’ve hardly any trace of the accent. I’d have said yours was much further south. I’m from South Achilcaig myself, though I went to school at St. Mary Magdalene in Helensburgh.”

The two women launched into conversation about their origins and memories of the Argyllshire villages where they grew up, and discovered they had played hockey against each other a dozen years before. Paddy drifted off to talk to a worried-looking woman seated a few feet away from Lindsay and Chris. Only minutes later their reminiscences were interrupted by raised voices from Paddy and the other woman.

“I had every right to excuse the girl. She’s in my house, Margaret. On matters of her welfare, what I say goes,” Paddy said angrily.