‘As bad as that?’ Diane looked in the mirror. ‘So what’s it t’be this week?’

Sylvia had picked up an old copy of Woman’s Own from the pile of magazines and newspapers on the shelf next to the big mirror. It was the October edition and here a woman was having a luxurious facial involving creams and massage. ‘What’s a facial, Di?’ she asked.

‘Dunno,’ said Diane. ‘Sounds summat medical. Anyway, what d’you fancy?’

Around the edge of the mirror was a collection of front covers from Picturegoer magazine. They had been stuck on the wall with strips of brown sticky tape. Sylvia pointed to a photo of the shapely Joan Collins. ‘Like ’er, please, Diane.’

A little while later Diane had sprayed Yorkshire Pale Ale as a setting lotion on Sylvia’s hair and stood back to admire her creation. ‘There y’are,’ she said as she lit up another cigarette. ‘Joan Collins.’

Sylvia nodded with obvious satisfaction. ‘Ah saw t’eadmaster buyin’ a fancy plant in the Stores,’ she revealed.

‘That’s not like ’im,’ said Diane.

‘Ah got t’thinkin’ it were probably ’is sister comin’ t’stay. She often does nearer Christmas an’ gives ’is ’ouse a proper tidy-up.’

Diane nodded. ‘That mus’ be it.’

Half an hour later Diane’s next customer arrived. Mrs Violet Fawnswater was a newcomer to the village. She had arrived from Leeds with her husband and seven-year-old daughter, Phoebe, an overindulged little girl with a passion for pretty dresses. Violet believed in turning out her daughter every morning to look like the child film star Shirley Temple. In fact, she had made the tuneless Phoebe practise singing ‘The Good Ship Lollipop’ until she was word-perfect.

Violet had moved from the Quarry Hill Flats development in Leeds city centre, where the Victorian slums had been replaced with a modern housing development including a shopping centre, nursery school and even a built-in refuse-disposal system. In consequence, she thought she was a cut above the country yokels in Ragley. Her husband had secured a management position, or so she described it, at the Rowntree’s chocolate factory in York. She was also convinced Phoebe would be the obvious choice for the part of Mary in the school Nativity play.

‘So, what’s it t’be, Violet?’

Violet gave an extravagant sigh. ‘Something different … something unique … something just me,’ she said, almost bursting into song.

Bloody ’ell, thought Diane, I’ve got a right one ’ere.

The rehearsal for the Nativity play went surprisingly well. Lily had made sure all the children had a part, including five-year-old Lizzie Buttershaw, who was, literally, the star.