‘Yes, an ideal plant for Christmas,’ said Vera with cautious enthusiasm. ‘Mr Flagstaff called in and gave this to me. I don’t wish to take it home … it wouldn’t be appropriate. So I thought it would brighten up the staff-room.’

‘I dread being given plants,’ said Lily.

‘Really?’ asked John, suddenly crestfallen.

‘Yes, I had one last Christmas and all the leaves fell off. I vowed never to have one again.’

‘Never mind,’ said Vera. ‘Perhaps you just haven’t got green fingers.’

John stared forlornly out of the window towards his car.

‘Anyway, must rush,’ said Lily. ‘I’m getting my hair done and then my mother is preparing a birthday tea.’

Lily was aware that John appeared as if there was something important he wished to say. On occasions during recent days she had noticed him looking at her, just a glance, never a stare. In her presence he spoke less and smiled often. Although he kept his distance, he was never far away. It occurred to her that John had become a reassuring presence, a trusted friend – but, of course, never more than that.

‘Enjoy your evening,’ said Vera.

‘Yes, happy birthday, Lily,’ said John quietly.

It was a hasty farewell and after Vera had departed the school was silent. John sat at his desk and took out the school logbook. He unscrewed the top of his fountain pen and began to record the events of the day. There was no mention of a poinsettia.

The hairdresser’s was empty apart from Diane when Lily walked in. Diane was sitting on a chair by the closed window smoking a cigarette. ‘Hello, Miss Briggs,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘I get “Miss Briggs” all day at school,’ said Lily with a grin, ‘so please call me Lily.’

Diane stubbed out her cigarette and smiled in the mirror. ‘Right then, Lily, what’s it t’be?’

‘Nothing special – just a trim. It’s down to my shoulders now, so perhaps an inch or so.’

‘You’ve got lovely ’air,’ said Diane. ‘I could do with your picture up there.’ She gestured with her hairbrush towards the collection of film stars.

‘Thanks,’ said Lily. ‘Fortunately I don’t have to bother with it much.’

‘You’re lucky. Most of my customers would pay a fortune for a ’ead of ’air like this.’

Lily settled back in the chair, enjoying the freedom from small children pulling at her skirt while she repaired kings’ crowns and shepherds’ crooks. Diane brushed her hair gently and then got to work with her comb and sharp scissors.

‘So, how’s Sergeant Feather these days?’

Lily knew the hairdresser’s was famous for its village gossip. ‘He’s certainly a good policeman – so I’ve heard.’

Diane smiled. ‘He’s still a man though, Lily, an’ they’re all alike.’

It was Lily’s turn to smile. Tom Feather was not like other men. He was different.