The air felt close, hard to breathe. I longed to say something, but the meeting was already moving on. Pa announced item three, the annual financial report.

Blackman spoke for what seemed like an eternity about what he called ‘estimates for upcoming needs’: the familiar list of flagstones, organ bellows and vestry roof. An extended debate followed about which of these was the most pressing – of course, it was the roof, but this was also estimated at tens of thousands of pounds, and they would have to launch a special appeal.

‘There is another option,’ Blackman said. ‘We could consider divesting some of the church’s assets.’

‘Sell off the family silver? I don’t think so,’ Mr Abbott said.

‘There is a piece of land,’ Blackman went on, ‘on which the aforementioned illegal encampment currently sits . . .’

‘Surely, you’re not talking about the woodland, Henry? That’s a village asset. We couldn’t sell that,’ Alistair Thornberry said. ‘Anyway, why would anyone want to buy it?’

But Blackman answered, smooth as silk, ‘Of course, of course. It was only a passing suggestion, in case we should find ourselves in very serious financial difficulties in future.’ That threat again. Pa seemed to be studying the papers on the table in front of him.

Mr Abbott piped up again, ‘Whatever happened to that matter of the missing money, Mr Treasurer? Weren’t you supposed to report back to us on that?’

Blackman responded without a flicker of hesitation, ‘I’m glad you asked, Charlie. We have been working very hard to try untangle it, haven’t we, Vicar?’

‘The previous incumbent obviously got everything into a right muddle,’ Mr Abbott grumbled. ‘I hope you can get it sorted out, sharpish.’

‘We went to the bank last week,’ Blackman said. ‘So we’re nearly there, and you will be the first to know what’s been going on.’

At the end of the meeting I stomped off upstairs, bursting with fury, unable to face the goodbyes and other pleasantries. After the anger had turned to tears, I felt overwhelmed with a heavy sense of inevitability. My father was defeated. It was no use haranguing him. If I wanted something to happen, it would be up to me.

14

There were other pressing concerns in my life: what to take as a birthday present for Kit. But what does a seventeen-year-old boy want? Especially a wealthy boy who already seemed to have everything? I consulted Mrs D.

‘What does he like to do?’

‘I don’t really know him that well. He likes swimming and being out on the lake.’

‘How’s about a book?’

‘I really don’t think he’s the reading type.’

‘How’s about making him something yourselves? Hand-made things always mean more. Some fancy biscuits, say? We’ve got some sugar coupons, so that shouldn’t be a problem.’