“So what happened?”

“They had a vote. Restoring the old shed won by one vote. So that’s what they’re going to do. Big effort planned to fund-raise enough money to do the job. What a waste! The whole place will fall down in another ten years anyway.”

Kate laughed. “They need you, Gavin,” she said, and added to herself that Gavin needed them, too. Since they had moved here-a mistake, in her opinion-he had been like a caged tiger. He had boundless energy, was good at getting things done, and could strong-arm his way into and out of any situation. Perhaps she should have a word with somebody. Put his name forwards?

A preliminary little cry from upstairs brought them both to their feet. Cecilia was their first child, and neither had any previous experience of handling toddlers. So they crept upstairs to see if she was even a little bit unhappy. They peered into her cot, and she opened her eyes, saw their anxious faces, and opened her tiny mouth to give a surprisingly loud bellow.

TONY DIBSON HAD ENJOYED HIS PINT OF BEST IN THE CORNER OF the bar beside a roaring log fire. The ritual of the council meeting, followed by a pint in the pub and a game of dominoes with his good friend Fred Smith, had played its part in his village routine for years. At each council election, he allowed his name to be put forwards, and he always commanded a sizable vote. This year, however, he had only just scraped in by a few votes. Time to go, he told himself. Too many new people in the village, and he was too old to fight for what he believed was good for the community. Not that he had ever thought about it in those terms. Being on the parish council was something he’d always done, and his father before him, and he had known instinctively what most of the villagers would want. Not anymore though, he thought, as he put his last tile triumphantly on the table.

Then Derek Meade and John Thornbull had come over, and asked him to be on the subcommittee to organise fund-raising for repairing the old village hall.