He appeared in the doorway, a tall, almost skeletal figure in a clerical collar.

‘I’ll see you in school later this morning,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘I’m giving a talk to Mr Pruett’s class.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Vera cautiously. Joseph was always at ease with his Sunday morning congregation, but completely at a loss with young children. ‘What’s the theme?’

‘Creation,’ said Joseph.

And the best of luck, thought Vera as she set off for school at a brisk walk.

On the school field Big Dave and Little Malcolm were playing conkers. Dave was so much taller than Malcolm that he had to crouch each time it was his turn. Even so, it was the diminutive Malcolm who shattered Dave’s conker and sent it crashing to the ground.

Dave was puzzled. ‘Y’beat me ev’ry time, Malc,’ he said as they sat down on the grass.

‘It’s ’cause of m’dad.’

‘’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Dave.

‘’E soaks ’em in vinegar an’ then bakes ’em in t’oven.’

‘Flippin’ ’eck, Malc,’ said Dave in admiration, ‘no wonder you allus beat us.’ He looked around furtively. ‘Ah’ve got summat f’you.’

Malcolm looked up curiously at his best friend. Dave rummaged in the pocket of his baggy grey shorts and pulled out two cigarettes and a box of matches. ‘One f’you, Malc, and one f’me.’

‘Thanks, Dave!’

‘Let’s ’ope m’dad doesn’t notice ah nicked a couple,’ Dave mumbled.

Malcolm’s eyes lit up and he smiled at his giant cousin. ‘Where to, Dave?’

‘Be’ind t’bike shed,’ said Dave knowingly. ‘Ol’ Pruett’ll never see us there.’

A minute later they were leaning back against the wall of the cycle shed, puffing away contentedly. Dave took out a torn scrap of paper from his crumpled jacket. ‘’Ave a look at this, Malc.’

It was a page from a magazine with a photograph of Stanley Matthews. The Blackpool and England footballer was smiling while smoking a cigarette. Malcolm stared at the picture in awe. ‘M’favourite footballer, Dave, Stanley Matthews. Ah wanna be like ’im.’ His ruddy face screwed up in concentration. ‘Big words. You read it. What’s it say?’

Dave took a final puff of his cigarette and tried unsuccessfully to blow a smoke ring. Then he studied the tiny print. ‘It sez ’ere that t’wizard of t’dribble smokes Craven A cigarettes f’smooth, clean smoking.’

Malcolm nodded. ‘Ah’m gonna smoke Craven A when ah’m bigger.’

‘So am I,’ replied Dave. ‘Mind you, ah’m bigger now.’

Riding her bicycle on the back road from Kirkby Steepleton, Lily passed Twenty Acre Field. Two men were completing the thatching of the hayricks to protect the precious straw over winter. The season was changing and the villagers were checking their woodpiles in preparation for a long, cold North Yorkshire winter.