It wouldn’t be the first time it had been repaired. He remembered over the last forty odd years many occasions when the roof had leaked, the plumbing seized up, when windows had been broken by vandals, and the kitchen tap had been left running and flooded the whole place. Money had been found to cope with these, and there was always a generous donation from her up at the hall.

Now they were planning a big renovation, Derek Meade had said, to celebrate the old building’s hundredth birthday. Well, good on them, he thought. That hall had been part of village life for generations. Wedding receptions, christening parties, WI meetings, concerts of local talent, and a hundred other uses marking high points in the lives of village families.

In due course, Tony walked slowly down the street to his home in the row of cottages on the corner where the High Street met Church Lane. He could have found his way with his eyes shut, without slipping or tripping.

He had told Derek he would think about it. As he unlocked and opened his front door, his wife sat as always in her chair by the window, although it was dark and she couldn’t have seen anything outside, even supposing she still had her sight. She turned her head towards him with her usual sweet smile. Now disabled by arthritis and various ailments the social worker called “age related,” she relied on Tony for almost everything. He didn’t mind. He would do anything to keep her from going into one of those places where he knew the heart would go out of his beloved Irene.

“Any news?” she asked. It was always her first question, even if he had only been to the shop and had a chat with shopkeeper Josie Meade, daughter of Derek and Lois.

He took off his coat and told her about the village hall. “And Derek Meade wants me to help fund-raise,” he added. “Be on some committee or other. They need my experience of village needs, but I reckon I don’t have time for all that rubbish.”