They shake their heads. “Our grandmothers are, though,” volunteers one of the girls. “But her granny”—jerking her head at the other child—“who’s my great-auntie Amy, has a chipped tooth.”

“And her granny, who’s my great-auntie Airey, doesn’t,” says the second girl, scooping a soggy pale pink cherry out of a tin with a teaspoon. I glance over at the makeshift bar, relieved to see that Clive my curate and Alan Sutton, father to the headstrong Meg, are serving real drinks hand over fist.

“Gosh, a cherry as well. Thank you.”

The girl blinks from under her forelock. “It wouldn’t be punch otherwise.” She tips the cherry into my cup. “Everyone’s allowed one each.” She says it thoughtfully, as if to herself. “Just one.”

—

I circulate, resplendent in my new jersey, sharing in conversations about the pros and cons of joining the common market, who the next Dr. Who will be, and whether seat belts kill more people than they save. This is a hotly debated topic due to the recent tragic death of one Pete Molloy, a farmer from the next parish whose burned-out car was found upside down in a ditch with the hapless Pete inside, allegedly burned to a crisp, “with his charred hand clutched around the belt buckle.” Which last detail is supplied by Lucy Horne and greeted with gasps of horror. I’m halfway around the room when I hear Althea Brock cry, “God, it’s an absolute scrum,” with evident delight. I take a deep breath. Lucy has told me that Lady Brock was being driven here by Ellen.

There they are, coming in through the doorway, Lady Brock enveloped in a scarlet shawl, Ellen standing very close behind her. Lady Brock has no canes today: she and Ellen move together toward the battered sofa, and it’s only because I’m watching her so closely that I realize Ellen has her arm across Lady Brock’s bowed back, her firm support concealed under the shawl. When they reach the sofa Ellen slowly bends down, chatting to another seated guest as she unobtrusively settles Lady Brock onto the cushions. It is very nicely done. Nobody would ever suspect that Lady Brock was now too lame to cross a room under her own steam.

Ellen moves away without further ado and accepts a plastic cup of children’s punch. She’s carrying a small package in her other hand. She is tall and smiling, her hair very elegant and shiny and pulled back. I don’t understand why everyone in the room isn’t looking at her. But then they’ve known her all her life. They must be used to her. I move through the crush toward her.

“What a nice party, Reverend,” she says, holding out the package. “I hoped these might come in handy.”