In the village Pharmacy, Herbert Grinchley was serving Mrs Alice Dlambulo, who had arrived in Ragley with her husband from Jamaica three years ago. After taking jobs no one else wanted, her husband had finally found regular employment as a bus conductor in York. Her hard-working son, Clyde, had done better with a job at Morrisey’s Motor Cycle Mart.

Mrs Dlambulo was a happy lady with a sense of fun and she was used to Herbert’s sales technique. This morning she wanted some hand cream, as her hands were chapped after washing Clyde’s overalls twice a week.

Herbert put a jar of Pacquins Hand Cream on the counter. ‘This’ll do t’job, Mrs Dlambulo.’

‘Ah s’ppose so.’ She picked up the jar and read the label. ‘It might even work miracles,’ she said with a quizzical look.

‘What might that be?’ asked Herbert.

‘Well, it says soft white hands after washing up.’ She held up her black hands and smiled.

‘Oh ’eck,’ said Herbert and his cheeks flushed.

Next in the queue was Joseph Evans, looking distinctly grey around the gills.

‘I need something to settle my stomach,’ said Joseph. ‘I’m feeling a little queasy.’

‘What brought that on, Vicar?’

‘Possibly my Honeysuckle Supreme wasn’t quite ready.’

Herbert smiled. The vicar’s home-made wine had a reputation in the village. He slapped a quarter-pound tin of Andrews Liver Salts on the counter. ‘Here y’are, Mr Evans, a refreshing and pleasant fizzy laxative for inner cleanliness. Settles the stomach and tones the liver.’

Joseph didn’t need the sales patter – just some relief. ‘Thank you, Herbert,’ he said and staggered back to the vicarage.

The talk in the staff-room at lunchtime was of televisions. More people in the village were buying or renting them. It seemed everyone wanted to view the forthcoming Coronation in their own homes and sales had rocketed. The ardent royalist Vera had surprised Joseph by sending him to York to make an immediate purchase, and Tom proposed to buy one for his mother this coming weekend. John Pruett was ahead of them all and had rented one from the store in York three weeks ago.

‘Are you enjoying your television, Mr Pruett?’ asked Anne.

‘I certainly am,’ said John. ‘I watched the FA Cup Final.’

‘So did I,’ said Anne. ‘It was a wonderful game. I saw it at my parents’ house. Blackpool beat Bolton four–three. Stan Mortensen scored a hat-trick and Stanley Matthews was the star of the match – at the age of thirty-eight.’

John looked surprised. ‘For a woman you seem to know a lot about football.’

‘Of course, I enjoy all sports,’ said Anne, looking slightly bemused. ‘It didn’t occur to me that it depended on whether I was a woman or not.’