“Patty Matthews!” Hilary exclaimed.  “You’re not in Iran!”

“No, no,” Patty replied.  “We got out last summer.  Jeremy… my husband… he’s now working in Whitehall.  It’s terrible there now, you know.  We just got out in time.  You know they stormed the Embassy?  I didn’t recognise you at first.  Very bad of me, isn't it?  Then I heard you talking.  Is this your local church?”

Hilary smiled an embarrassed smile.  “I'm afraid I haven't been going to church much.”

“Nor us.  We haven't been living here long, only since September.  We’re in Wheaton village.”  She laid her hand on Hilary's arm.  “Hilary… do come and have lunch with us and tell me everything about Water Langley.”

“Well, that’s very kind of you,” said Hilary, who had been looking forward to a simple jacket potato with salad and a quiet afternoon with “The Last Chronicle of Barset”.  She had been about to add “but…” and to make her excuses.

“Wonderful!” cried Patty, when Hilary accepted her invitation. “You’ve got a car?  That’s my car, the red one.  You can follow me.”

Patty and her family lived in a substantial, double-fronted, detached house in Wheaton village, an older property rendered with discoloured stucco, dark green paint flaking off the woodwork, set in a big, weed-strewn garden.  Patty apologised for the state of the house, saying over and over again that they had only just moved in, they had decorators booked and someone was “dealing with” the garden.  Hilary loved old-fashioned front door with a proper iron knocker and leaded fanlights, and the black and white quarry tiles in the hallway.  My place will have fanlights and quarry tiles, she thought.

“Now, tell me about Water Langley,” said Patty again, throwing potatoes into a bowl.  “It’s so lovely bumping into you like this.  Margaret was my best friend, you know.” 

Constance told everybody she had been Margaret's best friend too, Hilary thought, then she said aloud, “I'm afraid I haven't been back for over eighteen months.”  But Patty wanted to talk about Water Langley anyway, Water Langley in the 1950s, when Margaret had been organist and Bill Macready the curate, when everything had been right in the world, when they had gone ballroom dancing in the village hall and Mrs Rayner had run the village wool shop.  Lunch was tough, over-cooked meat, and soggy vegetables, and Patty's husband, Jeremy Thornton, and their two sons, Peter and Tim (home from boarding school for half term) talked about motor-racing non-stop, but it was the first family meal Hilary had eaten for a long time.

“Do come and see us again!” Patty pleaded, as Hilary was leaving. “Are you coming to church next Sunday?  And bring Alice Newton with you.  I'd love to see how Connie’s daughter’s turned out.”

“I think it’s because she’s just arrived in the area and doesn’t know many people,” said Hilary when Alice returned from her flight.  “But she’s really nice.  She wants to meet you as well.”

“Do I want to meet her?”  Alice pursed her lips.  “Mum didn’t like Patty very much, you know.”

“Oh.”

“According to Mum, Patty had a reputation for being all over someone one minute then dropping them like a stone the next.  And for being a terrible gossip.”

“Well, my mum really liked her.  Patty was one of her closest friends.”

“No, well, you wouldn’t drop Margaret Rayner, would you?  Margaret Rayner was special.”

Hilary smiled.  Even now, this concept gave her pleasure.  “You don’t think, do you, that your mum and Patty were fighting over my mum?”

“Like schoolgirls?  Very likely!”  Alice laughed, as she walked into the kitchen, then stopped in her tracks.  “Hilary, I'd appreciate it if you didn’t mention me being gay or Robert being autistic… you know?”

“No.  Of course not.  I said I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

Hilary returned to Wheaton church the following Sunday and saw Patty again.  In fact, Hilary saw Patty quite a lot.  Patty’s house was just a few minutes from Wheaton station, where Hilary changed for Lorning, and, it seemed that, as the temperatures grew colder, the winds more blustery and the cold, the driving rain more persistent, the more likely it was that the Lorning branch line would be delayed.  Often, Hilary found herself, at six or seven in the evening, sitting in the kitchen with Patty, whose husband didn’t come home until later, drinking tea and chatting about Water Langley, but steering round those subjects that Alice didn’t want mentioned, which was difficult, as Patty sometimes asked searching questions. 

“How do you get on with Frank’s second wife?” Patty asked, as she refilled Hilary's teacup.  “I think it’s terrible him remarrying just like that.  He was so upset at Margaret's funeral.”

“Well…”

“But I don’t suppose you see much of them now you’re in London.”

“No.  They come down to London quite often, to “take in a show”, although I never get to meet them.  They belong to this retired Council workers club and go to shows with them.  They’re both pensioners now, living the life of Riley, shows, holidays abroad.”

Patty sighed a heavy sigh.  “I wouldn’t mind going to the theatre in London, but Jeremy never wants to.  As for Christmas, you must come to us.”

“Patty, that’s ever so kind, but… Christmas is family time.”

Patty grasped her hand.  “I insist.”

“Oh thank you.  I'd love to come to you for Christmas.  I can't pretend I was looking forward to Christmas with Dorrie in Chenham.”

“Is it Dorrie’s house they living in?”

“Yes.  Our house was sold in 1977.”

“What happened to everything, all the furniture and all Margaret's… things?”

“Dad and Dorrie have got some of it, but most of the furniture was sold off.  Constance is holding on to Mum’s good stuff… you know, china, cutlery and so on… for me.  Then I took Mum’s books, her sheet music and her diaries, to Granny’s.  They’re all stacked up in the bedroom Mum used to have as a child.”

Patty nodded.  She grabbed hold of Hilary's wrist, as if she were about to say something, but then the telephone rang: Jeremy, very cold and cross, his train having “failed” at Wimbledon Station, and demanding to be picked up.  Patty dropped Hilary off in Lorning on the way and, just as she was saying goodbye, Patty asked, “When’s Alice coming for Sunday lunch.  I'm longing to meet her!”

Alice was at last persuaded to go to Sunday lunch at Patty’s and to eat roast pork the consistency of shoe leather and a complicated pudding which looked, and tasted, like burnt apples.  Alice took with her several packets of family photographs and, as soon as the meal had been cleared away, Patty spread them across the dining table.  “That’s Connie… and John.  Your father hasn’t aged a bit, Alice, dear.  That’s you.  And these must be your brothers!  What are their names now?”

Hilary got up and walked into the kitchen.  For a moment, she stared out the misted window into the gathering afternoon gloom.  A lead weight hung in her stomach, but this was normal after Patty’s Sunday lunches.

“And none of you married yet!  Connie must be wondering if she’ll ever have any grandchildren,” Hilary heard Patty say.  “You mustn’t leave it too long, dear.  The body-clock, you know.”

“I'm a career girl.”  This was Alice's stock answer.

“Which one of your brothers is this?  Gosh, what long hair!”

Hilary wrenched a tea towel from its rail and grabbed a saucepan in the washing-up rack.  She was going to be grown-up about this.  She was twenty-three, Children’s Librarian, car-owner, and, in a few years’ time, she would buy her own flat.

“Sorry about that,” said Alice, on the way home.

Hilary forced a smile.  “He’s your brother.”  Alice never spoke about Andy, hadn’t mentioned him once since Hilary had come to live with her.  It seemed to be an unspoken agreement between them.  Alice turned into their road and parked her car in its usual place.  “Is he OK?” Hilary asked.

Alice turned to face her as she took the key from the ignition.  A searchlight beamed garish orange light into the car.  “Yes,” she answered.

“He must be doing his pre-registration year in hospital now, I suppose.”

“Yes, he is.”

“There are so many strikes in hospitals at the moment - porters, cleaners, ambulancemen.  It can't be much fun working in a hospital at the moment.”

“Well, no, but he’s coping.”

They got out of the car and went back into their flat, switching on lights and drawing curtains, and all the other things people do when they return home.  Hilary made her packed lunch for tomorrow, then joined Alice in the living room to watch, “The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin”, one of her favourite programmes.  “Alice,” she said, as the final credits rode up the screen, “please tell me.  Has Andy got someone else?”

The next programme was the News - more strikers standing around braziers and shouting bad-temperedly at the cameras.  Alice turned the sound down.  She was not a political animal.  “Men!”

Hilary was still looking at her.  “Has he?”

Alice drew in her breath.  “Do you really want to ask me that, Hilary?”

“So he has then?”

“Well, yes… He’s just started going out with one of the other doctors at the West London Hospital, where he’s working.”

“Oh,” said Hilary, dully.  “Oh.”

“You did ask me!”

“Yes, I know.  I know I shouldn’t.  I… I'm sorry… I'm going to get a bath.”

She slammed the bathroom door shut and, for some time, stood staring at the “eau-de-nil” bathroom tiles (which Alice didn’t like) and the empty bath, the only water emanating from her ready, hot, angry tears. 

After a while, Alice knocked on the door, but Hilary didn’t reply.  She thought she couldn't face Andy's sister.  Now she ran the bath, and, in the hot water and steam, which afforded no relief or comfort that evening, she tried, in vain, to remove all evidence of her tears.

“Oh, you poor girl!” was the first thing Alice said when she reappeared.

“I shouldn’t be crying.”

Alice put her arm around her shoulder and led her back to the sofa in the living room.  “Men, eh?” she said, opening the drinks cupboard and pouring out two large Baileys.

“I sometimes wish I was gay, like you!”

“Hilary Bowles, you are not gay!”

“I'm just not attractive.  Nobody’s asked me to go out with them for almost two years - since Andy.”

“Well, you are working in a library, with a whole load of women.”

“Caroline wants us to join a dating agency.”

“Well, why not?”