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hard to reconcile the aims of his employers with the needs of their employees, was often troubled by the ambiguities of his situation and tempted to change course again and put up for Parliament as a Liberal candidate.
    â€˜When the children are settled,’ Sarah said with her heart in her mouth, ‘we can think again.’
    Meanwhile they were more active in the community than other agents had been and Edward enjoyed his position as consultant to the whole Fellside coal-field. In accepting it he had been influenced by the house that went with it. As Linden had been quick to see, Ashlaw had remained mainly a rural village. The coal under its fields was got out elsewhere. Certainly the waters of its leaf-shaded river were polluted by the Fellside colliery upstream but Ashlaw itself had no slag-heap, pit pond nor head-stock to disfigure it.
    Various dwellings had occupied the site of Monk’s Dene since the Middle Ages but the present house was a substantial Victorian residence with a look of age and none of its inconveniences. It faced away from the village but its back door was accessible from the main street to callers who had problems to unburden, forms to be filled in, letters to be explained – without the toil of having to get into their good clothes.
    As for front-door visitors, Sarah did not flag in her intention to look after the Greys a little; that is to say, she did not flag for some time. It was a one-sided relationship. Once during the summer term, Margot was invited to 5 Gordon Street where the Greys occupied the first-floor rooms.
    â€˜You enjoyed it?’ Her mother’s question invited a more generous response than Margot seemed able to make. Her hesitation was just as illuminating. The dinginess of the sitting-room, the flimsiness of the refreshments – thin bread and butter and a slice of fruit cake – could not be described with enthusiasm. The dinginess didn’t matter. The flimsiness could be rectified by the cramming down of a milk chocolate bar in the bathroom. It wasn’t so much the absence of cosiness and fun as the presence of a sort of stiffness that caused Margot to ponder. Linden had been as sweet as ever but had been even less talkative than usual. The room was cold. Mrs Grey, wearing a thick tweed costume and amber beads and pouring tea from a silver tea-pot into wide shallow cups, had mentioned that ‘the rest of the silver’ was in store ‘until we are settled in a permanent home.’
    â€˜Oh yes,’ Margot had said brightly, the brightness a substitute for any sensible answer she could think of to such a remark.
    â€˜I like it best when they come here,’ she told her mother.
    Certainly at Monk’s Dene there was less constraint and more food, but seeds of doubt had been sown. Were their own meals too hearty? Too unrefined? Common sense came up with a negative reply: people needed food especially after a long day at school with a load of homework ahead. On the other hand Linden’s superior sophistication could not be overlooked; she knew how things should be done.
    â€˜They’re snobs,’ Lance said. ‘They’re trying to keep up appearances.’
    â€˜Why?’ Margot demanded, aghast.
    â€˜Don’t ask me why. It’s a form of cheating.’
    Nevertheless Margot became an enthusiast for refinement. It made little difference to her life-style which was too firmly geared to fit in with other people’s to offer scope for change, but her manner did alter. Linden never talked about herself, never exchanged confidences. Perhaps that was why she was so interesting – intriguing, like an unopened book whose contents may be dull but will not be found to be so as long as they remain unread.
    â€˜Margot hasn’t said a word for at least two minutes.’ Her father paused in carving the Sunday joint. ‘Is anything wrong?’
    â€˜She’s stopped gushing,’ Alex said, ‘and