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smiled. They turned their prams and tottered obediently back up towards the house, knowing in their telepathic way that their mother was not all that cross, not really.
     
    *
     
    Bill walked over the river bridge, and stopped to look into the water, his watchful eye noting that the water-weed was getting too thick again under the stone arches and would need sorting out. He looked back at the church, the weathercock shining in the morning sun, and thought for the hundredth time that anybody but his Joyce would be happy to live in such a village.
    He had come across the fields from a spinney far over towards Fletching, where he and Mr Richard planned to make a hide for Susan Standing to pursue her new enthusiasm for bird-watching.
    The hedgerows were full of flowers, the result of Mr Richard's ordering a stop to blanket spraying of fertiliser and insecticides. Bill had seen misty-blue scabious and scarlet poppies, shining yellow buttercups and great white heads of cow mumble, all blowing in the wind amongst feathery grasses in every shade of green and purple. There had been a time when he and Joyce had walked hand in hand down the lanes, and she had known the names of all the flowers and grasses, laughing at Bill for his ignorance. 'Call yourself a country boy,' she said, 'you might just as well have been born in Tresham . . .'
    But he knew them now, because he had learned from Joyce, admiring her quick brain and her wiry strength. What a sodding shame, he thought, blaming himself for not knowing how to cope with her when she needed him most. He walked slowly across the sunlit Green to the shop, and climbed the steps.
    'Morning Bill,' said Peggy, looking down at the order book from the Hall. Ellen Biggs was in the shop, examining closely every gooseberry she put into a brown paper bag. It was pension morning, and Mary York sat in the Post Office cubicle counting out notes for old Fred Mills.
    Mary York lived up the Bagley Road in an ugly bungalow, happily and tidily married to Graham, who worked in the Inland Revenue office at Tresham. They had no children, never talked about having any, and kept themselves to themselves. Mary was a pleasant, helpful girl, plain and honest, and had worked in the shop since the days when Doris Ashbourne trained her straight from school. Peggy could not afford to employ her full-time, but on very busy days, Mary came in and efficiently and quietly got on with the job.
    'Morning Peggy,' said Bill, and Peggy felt her colour rise. This is ridiculous, she thought, anybody would think I was a teenager, instead of a middle-aged widow woman. She had lately become self-conscious about looking directly at Bill when other people were around. She was sure her feelings must show in her face, and she was equally sure the echoing warmth in his eyes and smile were glaring evidence of deepening affection between them.
    Bill hung back, looking at things on shelves that he was never likely to buy, and when Ellen and Fred Mills had gone he came forward to the counter.
    'Must see you alone, Peggy,' he said very quietly, so that Mary York, apparently occupied counting stamps, did not hear.
    Peggy looked at him, startled at the urgency in his voice.
    She straightened the pile of postcards of Ringford Green, and looked across at Mary.
    'Just going to get Bill to look at that drain in the yard,' she said. 'I've tried unblocking it, but the water is still not going down.'
    Mary York nodded. It wasn't easy for Peggy, she thought innocently, being without a man in the house. Just as well Bill Turner was one who could turn his hand to anything.
    Bill followed Peggy into the kitchen and then out into the back yard. Conscious of the Beasley look-out next door, Peggy said in a loud voice, 'There it is, Bill, still blocked, though I've tried my best to clear it.'
    They bent their heads together over the drain, and Bill whispered, 'Somebody's telling Joyce tales about us, Peggy. We shall have to be very careful, girl. Not that