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have a full glass—Esme, too. I think sometimes you really should have your eyes checked again—try the other man this time, I’m not convinced Mr. Robinson isn’t becoming questionably visionary himself!”
    Marcus glanced at his wife with a kind of wondering incredulity.
    â€œMr. Robinson is a practical man, who could never have been described as visionary, questionably or otherwise. I am adequately supplied with beverages, and at Brockhyrst Chapel we may be considered still to have our heads above water, though, as you say, the year ahead presents its challenges.”
    Hilda gazed at him, baffled. “Marcus, whatever are you talking about? You’re simply repeating everything I’ve said and adding nothing to the conversation at all—and why on earth were you asking for water if you know perfectly well you’ve already got some? Really, you could try the patience of a saint at times—you can see my point, Esme, I’m sure! Heavens! Are we ready to move on to pudding, or is anyone still waiting for secs?”
    â€œSeconds, Esme?” asked Marcus, with utter gravity, but a certain sardonic gleam behind the glasses and under the eyebrows lifted in inquiry. “I’d like you to be clear as to what you were being offered. Potato, maybe? Or meat? No? Pudding then, Hilda, I think.”
    Feeling most comfortably replete after an excellent meal, Esme settled herself into the cushions of an armchair as the three of them returned to the sitting room to enjoy their coffee. In their absence, the dog had moved off the sofa and now slumbered peacefully on the hearth rug, snoring slightly.
    For a short while, as Hilda set off purposefully to the kitchen to fetch the tray of cups, Marcus and Esme lapsed into silence, and she wondered if she should take some conversational initiative.
    â€œI’ve been thinking about getting a bike,” she said, searching for something to talk about. “I spend so much time in the car, and the roads are so busy. Can you recommend a good place to go for a bike?”
    Marcus considered. “How much of a cyclist are you?” he asked, at length.
    â€œOh well—I mean, I can manage hills and I don’t fall off, but I shan’t be going in for races. Just for a bit of exercise really.”
    â€œI see. Then I think Jabez Ferrall might answer your purpose. He sometimes has something to sell, and he’s in any case a useful man to know. I never met anyone so resourceful. He’s in Wiles Green—not far from here, fifty yards past The Bull as you come into Wiles Green from Brockhyrst Priory. Back of the Old Police House, where Pam Coleman lives, you’ll find him. He could certainly advise you and maintain for you, regardless of what he may or may not have in.”
    Esme fished in her bag for her diary, which experience had taught her to take with her everywhere, and in the memoranda pages at the back she wrote down what Marcus had said: “Jabez Ferrall” ( Peculiar, old-fashioned name, she thought), “Wiles Green, behind the Old Police House, fifty yards beyond the pub.” “ BIKES ” she wrote above this memo, underlined.
    Over coffee they chatted about Esme’s parsonage. “Have you got all you need?” asked Marcus. “Is everything as it should be?”
    â€œIt’s all in very good order.” Esme hesitated. What she wanted to say sounded a little unappreciative. “Will you understand if I say that for me a difficult thing to come to terms with in ministry is that I realize a parsonage can never quite be a home? Please don’t misunderstand me—the circuit stewards have worked so hard to make it lovely, the kitchen has just been completely redone, and I have not a single grumble. It’s just—well—looking round at your sitting room I can see you are people who love your home, and part of what makes it home I think is that it’s either the place