looked like paradise to him.'
'I think Pa knew his wife's people up in Yorkshire,' said Richard. 'I do remember him talking about some northern Fothergills quite a lot at one time.'
'That clinches it, then,' said Susan, with a quiet smile. 'If Pa knew her people, the whole thing looks absolutely meant to be.'
Warren Jenkins and William Roberts wandered idly across the Green, dribbling a football over the bridge and down past the church and Ellen Biggs's little Lodge house at the entrance to the Hall avenue. There were heavy black clouds massing over the hills on the Bagley Road, and the sunlight had a sharp edge to it, presaging a storm.
William and Warren had formed their own opinion of the vicar presumptive from their hiding place in the bell tower, overlooking Wednesday evening's meeting. Both of them were learning to ring the bells, and knew about the narrow oak door in the vestry, which led up to where thl-ropes hung, never still, always gently swaying in the draughty chamber. The ropes were looped up for safety, and William and Warren had sat cross-legged by a crack in the floorboards, listening to the conversation which had floated up from the meeting below.
'He'll be a pushover,' said William, and Warren had nodded. 'A right softie, if you ask me,' he said. 'What you bet he tries to get the choir goin' again?'
'We'll be ready for him if he does,' said William, with a sinister leer. 'It worked last time, didn't it?' They had clambered down after most people had gone, and slipped out of the church unnoticed.
No thoughts of vicars troubled their minds now as they stopped opposite the Lodge gate, staring in.
'There's the three witches of Ringford,' said Warren, seeing Ellen's front door open and three dark shapes inside. 'Come on, William!' he yelled. 'They're gettin' the broomsticks out!' They shot off at great speed, whooping with what they imagined were witch-noises, and expertly passing the football from one to another, all the way up the avenue until they came within sight of the Hall. There they turned off through a much-used hole in the hedge and disappeared.
'If I catch that Warren Jenkins,' said Ivy Beasley, 'I'll give him something to remember me by.'
Ivy and Doris Ashbourne had walked down to Ellen Biggs's house for tea. It was Ellen's turn, and she had covered a rickety little three-legged cane table with a cloth, the embroidery faded and rusty spots on the creases.
'I remember that cloth, don't I, Ellen?' said Ivy Beasley.
'Used to be on the side table in the dining room at the Hall?'
'They done with it,' said Ellen dismissively. 'Too old and faded for them.'
She set out three cups, two matching saucers and the other very nearly the same. There were hairline cracks and the odd chip, but the china was delicate, and these too had seen better days on the Standing tea tray.
'There you are, Ivy,' said Ellen grandly, bringing in an iced sponge with walnuts on top. 'Slaved all morning in a hot kitchen makin' that for your tea.'
Ivy Beasley leaned forward and took a small piece of cellophane from the side of the cake. 'How come it says "Mr Kip ..." on this scrap o' paper, then, Ellen Biggs you old liar?' she said.
The sky had darkened, and one or two spots of rain spattered on Ellen's mullioned windows. It was dim at the best of times in the Lodge, and now it seemed like twilight in the little sitting room.
Ellen poured cups of strong tea from a big brown pot, slopping a little into the saucers as her hand shook with the weight.
'Gettin' old,' she said. 'That's what, we're all gettin' old.'
'Speak for yourself,' said Ivy Beasley. 'You're as young as you feel, Mother always used to say.'
'Yes, well,' said Ellen Biggs tartly, 'your mother was old from the day she was born.'
'Could we change the subject?' said Doris the peacemaker. 'What did we all think of the Reverend Nigel Brooks?'
'All the same, these vicars,' said Ellen, with an evil chuckle, 'lazy men, ridin' on the backs of the
'I think Pa knew his wife's people up in Yorkshire,' said Richard. 'I do remember him talking about some northern Fothergills quite a lot at one time.'
'That clinches it, then,' said Susan, with a quiet smile. 'If Pa knew her people, the whole thing looks absolutely meant to be.'
Warren Jenkins and William Roberts wandered idly across the Green, dribbling a football over the bridge and down past the church and Ellen Biggs's little Lodge house at the entrance to the Hall avenue. There were heavy black clouds massing over the hills on the Bagley Road, and the sunlight had a sharp edge to it, presaging a storm.
William and Warren had formed their own opinion of the vicar presumptive from their hiding place in the bell tower, overlooking Wednesday evening's meeting. Both of them were learning to ring the bells, and knew about the narrow oak door in the vestry, which led up to where thl-ropes hung, never still, always gently swaying in the draughty chamber. The ropes were looped up for safety, and William and Warren had sat cross-legged by a crack in the floorboards, listening to the conversation which had floated up from the meeting below.
'He'll be a pushover,' said William, and Warren had nodded. 'A right softie, if you ask me,' he said. 'What you bet he tries to get the choir goin' again?'
'We'll be ready for him if he does,' said William, with a sinister leer. 'It worked last time, didn't it?' They had clambered down after most people had gone, and slipped out of the church unnoticed.
No thoughts of vicars troubled their minds now as they stopped opposite the Lodge gate, staring in.
'There's the three witches of Ringford,' said Warren, seeing Ellen's front door open and three dark shapes inside. 'Come on, William!' he yelled. 'They're gettin' the broomsticks out!' They shot off at great speed, whooping with what they imagined were witch-noises, and expertly passing the football from one to another, all the way up the avenue until they came within sight of the Hall. There they turned off through a much-used hole in the hedge and disappeared.
'If I catch that Warren Jenkins,' said Ivy Beasley, 'I'll give him something to remember me by.'
Ivy and Doris Ashbourne had walked down to Ellen Biggs's house for tea. It was Ellen's turn, and she had covered a rickety little three-legged cane table with a cloth, the embroidery faded and rusty spots on the creases.
'I remember that cloth, don't I, Ellen?' said Ivy Beasley.
'Used to be on the side table in the dining room at the Hall?'
'They done with it,' said Ellen dismissively. 'Too old and faded for them.'
She set out three cups, two matching saucers and the other very nearly the same. There were hairline cracks and the odd chip, but the china was delicate, and these too had seen better days on the Standing tea tray.
'There you are, Ivy,' said Ellen grandly, bringing in an iced sponge with walnuts on top. 'Slaved all morning in a hot kitchen makin' that for your tea.'
Ivy Beasley leaned forward and took a small piece of cellophane from the side of the cake. 'How come it says "Mr Kip ..." on this scrap o' paper, then, Ellen Biggs you old liar?' she said.
The sky had darkened, and one or two spots of rain spattered on Ellen's mullioned windows. It was dim at the best of times in the Lodge, and now it seemed like twilight in the little sitting room.
Ellen poured cups of strong tea from a big brown pot, slopping a little into the saucers as her hand shook with the weight.
'Gettin' old,' she said. 'That's what, we're all gettin' old.'
'Speak for yourself,' said Ivy Beasley. 'You're as young as you feel, Mother always used to say.'
'Yes, well,' said Ellen Biggs tartly, 'your mother was old from the day she was born.'
'Could we change the subject?' said Doris the peacemaker. 'What did we all think of the Reverend Nigel Brooks?'
'All the same, these vicars,' said Ellen, with an evil chuckle, 'lazy men, ridin' on the backs of the
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