Vera beckoned to Nora Pratt, as Doris was busy with a feather duster. Three pottery ducks in full flight adorned the wall behind the counter and she dusted them every day. A wedding gift many years ago, they reminded her of her husband, Eric, who had flown the nest with a young and plump professional cheese sculptor who toured the country with her bizarre creations. In consequence, Doris rarely ate cheese and had become an independent and fulfilled lady with her prestigious Tea Rooms and her prominence in the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society. Meanwhile, she looked upon Nora as the daughter she had never had.

Nora was wearing a smart white apron and a hat that looked like a sailor’s. She took out her notepad and licked the tip of her small pencil. ‘What would you like, Miss Evans, Miss Bwiggs?’ she asked politely.

Vera smiled at Lily. ‘Crumpets and tea for two please, Nora – and good luck tonight.’

‘Thank you,’ said Nora. She glanced up at the clock on the wall above the three flying ducks. ‘Dwess wehea’sal at thwee o’clock.’

‘We’ll be cheering you on,’ said Lily.

‘Cwumpets an’ tea comin’ up,’ said Nora and hurried off to the kitchen.

Ruby’s mother, Agnes, had asked the next-door neighbour to look after Andy while she dragged an old iron bedstead down the road.

‘’Ere y’are, Tommy. ‘Ow much?’ Agnes never minced her words.

‘T’usual, Mrs Bancroft: sixpence or a goldfish.’

‘Sixpence please, Tommy. A goldfish don’t buy me a loaf o’ bread.’

He handed over a coin. ‘’Ow’s your Ruby?’

‘She’s in a reight dickie-fit. Ah’ve never seen ’er in such a state.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘’Cause o’ that lazy, good f’nothin’ ’usband. Spends all their money on beer an’ t’bettin’ shop.’

Tommy shook his head. ‘A shame – she’s a lovely lass is your Ruby. She should’ve tekken up wi’ that George Dainty, but ah ’eard ’e’s gone t’Spain t’seek ’is fortune.’

‘Y’reight there. ’E were broken ’earted when she took up wi’ Ronnie.’

‘She missed out, Mrs Bancroft,’ said Tommy, shaking his head sadly.

Agnes sighed. ‘Thanks for t’sixpence, Tommy, an’ ’ere’s a carrot f’Goliath.’

Tommy’s giant shire horse, the lugubrious Goliath, looked up with sudden interest and crunched the proffered carrot with his tombstone teeth while Agnes hurried over to the General Stores.

When Vera and Lily walked across the road to the village hall they met Joseph speaking with the funeral director, Septimus Flagstaff.

‘Hello, Joseph,’ said Vera.

‘Oh, hello, Vera. We’re just discussing the funeral of Mr Grimble. It’s next Saturday.’