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her hands and landed against the mossy tombstone marking the grave of Tom's long dead great grandmother Price.
    'End of an era,' said Doreen, as she walked down the road with Tom, back to the farm and the routine of jobs which must be done, animals fed and made safe for the night.
    'He was a good old boy,' said Tom, 'we shall not find it easy to replace him.'
    'You'd best get those clothes off as soon as we get back,' said Doreen, quickening her step. 'Cyril wouldn't have wanted your best suit going to the cleaners after one afternoon's wearing.'
    Tom looked at her in surprise, but, seeing that she was perfectly serious, he nodded, and they walked back in silence over the bridge, along the Green and up the quiet street to the farm, each thinking of Cyril Collins and the indelible place he had earned for himself in the history of Round Ringford.

 
     
    CHAPTER EIGHT
     
    'We can't have a woman parson, surely,' said Foxy to Jean Jenkins, who had just heard the news from Peggy in the shop. 'It wouldn't do for Ringford.'
    'Well, Mr Richard seems to think so,' said Jean. She got up from the table, took an apple from the draining board, and began to peel it. 'You're right, of course, Fox, but you can't help wonderin' if it wouldn't be a bit of a lark.' She cut the apple into small pieces and put it on a saucer in front of Eddie. Gemma and Amy finished their dinner at the same moment, and said in unison, 'Please can we get down,' being half off their seats before they got to the end of the sentence. Mark, a solid lad, overweight like his mother, chewed on, always a slow eater, but in any case anxious to hear how this conversation of his parents developed. Eddie, in his high chair, dropped half-chewed lumps of apple to the terrier waiting beneath, who obligingly ate them. Then he dropped the saucer, and it shattered noisily. After calm was restored,
    Foxy returned to the subject.
    'I still think it should be a family man,' he said. 'They were having it over in the pub last night, and Tom Price were laying down the law about no new fancy ways and suchlike. Mind you, I agree . . .'
    'When did you last go to church, Foxy my lad?' said Jean
    Jenkins, thumping him affectionately on the shoulder. 'You wouldn't know one end of a hymn book from the other.'
    'Nor would you, come to that,' said Fox defensively, 'but that ain't the point. The church belongs to the village, and that means the vicar has to do what's right for the village. Always was like that in Cyril's day, and should continue, if you ask me.'
    'I don't know,' said Jean, 'Reverend Collins told me one morning when we were havin' our coffee- he used to love to talk, poor old Cyril- he said that when he first come here, he was full of new ideas and plans for what he would do in the village- wake 'em up and get lots of new young people in the church. But them old biddies on the PCC and doin' the brasses and that, they took the heart out of him, gradually, he said, and in the end he just did what they wanted.'
    'But he did it his way,' said Fox, 'so he won in the end.'
    A sharp clacking of heels shifted their minds to the present, and Fox's head jerked to one side, listening, just like his namesake.
    'Fox, come here and look at those two,' said Jean, smiling and looking out of the window into the garden. Gemma and Amy, each pushing a doll's pram with doll neatly tucked up inside, stalked unsteadily down the concrete path between the neat rows of lettuces and peas, each wearing a pair of Jean's best high-heeled shoes.
    'It'll be smack bums for those two,' said Fox, 'if they don't ask first before taking your shoes.'
    'And lipstick,' said Jean happily. 'Look at their faces!'
    The normally pale faces of the twins shone with cream liberally applied and scarlet lipstick inexpertly smudged with a speedy and furtive hand.
    Jean opened the window and called out in a loud and angry voice, 'Gemma! Amy! Just you get in 'ere and see what I've got to say!'
    The twins looked at each other and