Next day, Hilary took the train to Rushloe and returned that evening.  “I'm going to enrol on a six month postgraduate librarianship course,” she told Andy, who met her at Chenham station in his mother’s car.

“Is that really what you want you want to do?” he asked.

Hilary shrugged.  During that short day, she had considered librarianship, postgraduate secretarial, banking, archivy, journalism, hospital administration… even teaching.  It had been unsettling, frightening even, to be away from Water Langley, to be a normal person again, to be spoken to by people who didn’t know about Margaret.  After a very short time, her eyes had glazed over, but the idea of starting term again was comforting, the academic routine that had governed her life since the age of five.  Part of her had always expected to go “back to school”, despite all the jobs in “administration” she had applied for.  She had also been to look at the outside of Amy’s flat in Glover Road.  Amy herself hadn't been there, had instead been in Birmingham, with her fiancé, Phil.  She spoke to Amy on the telephone the next day and related her plans, but then there was an awkward silence on the line. 

“It’s only for six months, then?” Amy said, at last.

“Yes.”

“When does it finish?”

“End of March.”

“My PGCE goes on until June.”  Another awkward silence.  “Hilary… I'm sorry.  I would’ve really liked to share with you but… the lease is until August, and the rent’s £18 a week.  I can't pay that all myself.  I need to share with someone who’ll be there for the whole year.”

As she put the phone down, Hilary cried tears of frustration.  As usual, she was alone in the house and would be for several hours, so she went into the kitchen and put the kettle on, weeping afresh on seeing in the kitchen cupboard the teapot which Margaret used to brew up for the two of them.  As she finished her tea, it occurred to her that the postgraduate librarianship course might be available at the University of Chenham.  It was, and she gained a place on it a few days later.  Maybe she was meant to stay in Water Langley, with Margaret, who would never leave the village or the churchyard.

She would miss Andy when he returned to St Luke's and that time was approaching fast.  For his last evening in Water Langley, John had given Andy £10 and told him to “take Hilary somewhere nice”, so they decided to go to The Lotus Tree in Langton, using Constance’s car to drive there.  Dorrie was at Hilary's house that evening, cooking lumpy, greasy, steak-and-kidney pie, with black gravy, in Margaret's kitchen, and Hilary was glad to have an excuse not to eat with them.  She retreated upstairs to get ready to go out.  When she returned, Frank and Dorrie were washing up in the kitchen.  “Er… hello,” said Frank, as he dried a soapy plate. 

“Hello, dear,” said Dorrie.  “All dolled up for your young man?”

Hilary made to walk away, but Frank called, “Do you want a drink or something?”  He had been hovering about her all day, as if he had – at last - realised that he needed her.

“No, thanks,” said Hilary, seeing the empty bottle of Golden October on the kitchen table and having seen them attack the Campari before that.

“Well, come and talk to us, then,” said Dorrie.

Hilary didn’t want to but supposed she should.

Here followed an awkward silence.  Frank was drying a pie dish and Dorrie was tipping out the washing up bowl.  Frank looked at Dorrie several times but she was humming and didn’t catch his glance.  He turned to face Hilary and drew in his breath.  “Hilary, I want to talk to you.”

Hilary raised her eyebrows.

“I'll be in the garden,” said Dorrie, opening the back door.

“No, no,” cried Frank.  “Stay!” 

“I… er… we… er… I'm retiring, next April.”

Hilary sighed in relief.  “That’s fine, Dad.  You’re fifty-nine.”

“And I'm retiring too,” said Dorrie. 

“We’re both retiring,” said Frank.

“Fine,” Hilary repeated. 

Another awkward silence.  Where was Andy?

“So,” said Frank, “we’re retiring.  On 5 April.  And also…  Well, the thing is…  Well…”

“You and Dorrie are… together,” cut in Hilary, stating the obvious, although she didn’t like it.  She hated it.

“We’re going to get married.”  Frank’s words burst out all in a rush.

Hilary hung up her mother’s tea towel, the one Margaret had bought from Walsingham last year, with the Shrine Church on it.  For a moment, hanging up mother’s tea towel was the most important task of her life.

“We’re getting married,” Frank reiterated.  “We’re engaged.”  He picked up Dorrie’s hand.  “Look, here’s the ring!”

Hilary shuddered.  He was talking like one of the Crofton Hall girls.  She had, in fact, noticed the ring when Dorrie had first arrived, but had assumed it was her late husband’s.  She spoke at last, almost in a whisper.  “But Mum…  my poor Mum… She only died six weeks ago!”

Dorrie lay her hand on her arm but Hilary's shoulder tightened into a hard ball.  “Your father still loves you.  He loves you very much.”

Hilary shrugged in a jolting movement.  The hand dropped away, as she had intended.  In twenty-one years, Frank had never ever told her that he loved her.

“Of course he does.”  Dorrie glared at him and he nodded.  “Hil…That’s what they call you, isn't it?”

“But Mum…?”  She was so angry, full of anger, anger pouring through her every vein.  And how dare Dorrie call her “Hil?”  She turned to face Frank, the pie dish still in his hand.  “My poor Mum!  Six weeks ago, you were so distraught you couldn't speak.  You didn’t eat, you didn’t drink, you could hardly stand up.  I respected that.  I felt pretty much like that too.  But I carried on, because one of us had to.  I tried to comfort you.  I tried to reach out to you.  Back at home, I tried to keep this place going, cook for you, do housework.  I didn’t expect thanks.  I respected your grief.”  Her fury rose up her throat like vomit and exploded like a volcano.  “Get this woman out of my mother’s house!”

Leaning against the fridge, and smiling a superior smile, Dorrie didn’t move.  “I believe, my dear, that this is your father’s house.  Your father went out to work while your mother played the church organ.”

“You can't do this!” cried Hilary, to Frank.  “Not now!  You’re not rational!”

“You’re the one who isn't rational, you silly girl!” said Dorrie, shaking her head in her knowing way.  “Any rational daughter would wish her father happiness.”

Hilary screamed again.  “Get this woman out of my mother’s house!”

Frank hesitated.  He looked at Dorrie, then he put down the pie dish, grabbed Hilary by the elbow and shook her, almost shaking her from her feet.  “Don’t speak to Dorrie like that!  You’ve never given a shit about me.  It was always Mummy, Mummy, Mummy with you!”  He shook her again, and threw her against the sink.

Hilary steadied herself.  Her elbow hurt, where Frank had grabbed her, but she was too angry to acknowledge pain.  The door bell rang.  Andy at last!

When Hilary opened the door, Constance was clambering out her car.  “I'm off to Bible Reading Fellowship, at Mrs Metcalfe’s.  Have a nice evening, you two!”  Constance was speaking in a completely normal voice, about completely normal things.  It was difficult for Hilary to believe that there was a real world out there.

“What have you done to your arm?” demanded Andy.  “It’s bleeding.”

“How’s Dad?” asked Constance, turning to walk towards Mrs Metcalfe’s house a few doors.

“Dad’s going to marry Dorrie,” said Hilary.

“What?” Constance spun round.  “What?”  Constance strode back up Hilary's drive.  “He can't do this!  He can't do this!”  She barged through the front door.

“Mum!” pleaded Andy.

“Frank Bowles, you are a fool!” Constance swung open the kitchen door, banging it against the kitchen cupboard.  “You are a complete and utter fool!”

Frank shuffled his feet.  “Er… Hello Constance.”

“Who is this woman?” Dorrie demanded.  “She has no right to be here.”

“You stupid man!” exclaimed Constance.  “You stupid, stupid man!  Doesn’t Margaret mean anything to you now?”

“Who is this?” repeated Dorrie. 

Constance ignored her.  In fact, she was standing right in front of her.  “And don’t you ever think of Hilary?  You have failed to consider Hilary at all since Margaret passed away!”

Frank stared at the lino on the kitchen floor.

“How dare you come in here like this?” cried Dorrie, pushing in between Hilary and Andy. 

“I've been coming to this house for twenty-two years,” Constance answered.  “You’re on the rebound, Frank Bowles!  You’re making yourself ridiculous!”

“Your wonderful Margaret was on the rebound from that Irish vicar when she married Frank,” retorted Dorrie, swinging round to face Hilary, “Wasn’t she?”

”Don’t speak about my mother like that!” screamed Hilary.  “My mother was… “  She started to cough.  The words were coming so fast into her throat they were choking her.  Andy grabbed her hand and squeezed it but she went on coughing.

“Not an appropriate thing to say,” retorted Constance, putting her arm around Hilary's shoulders.

Dorrie shrugged.  “I'm telling it how it was.  You don’t suppose, do you, Hilary, that your parents’ marriage was anything but a sham?”

“How can you know about things which happened in this village before you came here?” retorted Constance.  “I'm not listening to anymore of this!”  With enormous dignity, Constance swept out.  Hilary and Andy followed her, Hilary slamming the front door behind her.  “Your mother, Hilary,” cried Constance, in a whisper between clenched teeth, “was the kindest, strongest, most decent woman who ever lived.  Don’t you ever forget that!” 

“I won't,” Hilary replied.

Constance looked at her watch.  “Well, I suppose I'd better go to Bible Reading Fellowship and you’d better go for your Chinese meal – if he hasn’t spoiled it for you.”

“No,” said Hilary, through compressed lips.  “He hasn’t done that.  We’re going to Langton and we’re going to have a nice evening.”