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you grew up, or the place you chose because you fell in love with it. And part of what makes it lovable is its idiosyncrasies—like a person, really. But of course the whole point about acquiring and maintaining a parsonage is to find a neutral kind of place—a sensible purchase—with as few idiosyncrasies as possible, and iron out what ones there are before ever anybody moves in. Little things, oddities, I don’t know.…” She was beginning to feel a bit silly and wondered if she would have been better never to begin this. Marcus and Hilda were both listening to her thoughtfully, and she could feel herself getting embarrassed and hot.
    â€œPlease don’t think I’m complaining. The parsonage is really nice. There’s nothing wrong with it as a parsonage, but—well, for example, here you have your fireplace, and it must be lovely in the winter to sit down by an open fire in the evening. But in Southarbour of course it’s a smoke-free zone, and naturally the parsonage will be there because it’s the biggest place in the section, the most convenient, and anyway parsonages never have open fires. But I do love a fire. D’you see what I mean? I can see why they don’t have one—not everyone likes a fire, chimneys have to be swept, fires are hazardous, then as well they make dust and ash and so on. I can see why parsonages only have central heating.…”
    Marcus just watched her (and Esme wished he wouldn’t), but Hilda nodded sympathetically. “I know just what you mean, dear!” she said, warmly. “It’s a blessing! Central heating is a blessing. Having the circuit stewards to sort things out leaves you free to do your wonderful work. I envy you your spanking new kitchen—ours leaves a lot to be desired—the parsonage is very convenient, everything done, all mod cons—but everything has a backside.”
    In silence, Esme and Marcus pondered this judgment. Marcus put his coffee cup back on the tray. “Downside,” he murmured, absently. Then he looked very hard at Esme.
    â€œI know exactly what you mean,” he said. “You are talking about home being somewhere that somehow recognizes one; a place where one truly belongs. Somewhere one can in the fullest and deepest sense call one’s own. Well, please make this a second home. Investigate the junk shops. Find yourself a toasting fork and keep it here. You will always be welcome.”
    He nodded slightly to give this emphasis, and Esme felt a sudden deep gratitude for the kindness of this couple.
    â€œThank you,” she said. “And thank you so much for a lovely evening. I won’t make myself a nuisance, but certainly I’d love to come again.”

    Before she knew it, the remainder of August slipped away. Esme met some other members of her congregations. One or two dropped in with flowers or cards—one with an apple pie—to welcome her, and she was introduced to more people than she could remember when she stayed for coffee after worship at Portland Street and Brockhyrst Priory chapels on her remaining free Sundays. Then September came, the beginning of the Methodist year, with its flurry of committee meetings, special services, the round of preaching and visiting and leadership responsibilities, and so many things to plan and do.
    Esme’s diary filled up until it was back to its usual level of dense notes on every page, scarcely thinning out until two months ahead. Her day off she guarded jealously; the rest of the time was like a juggling act in a circus of bureaucracy.
    She had asked God for a friend, but right now she felt grateful she didn’t have any within easy reach of her—friends are a time-consuming luxury in a minister’s life.
    Any thoughts of exercise, of cycling, or walking in the country were shelved for the time being. She might well get to that, but for now it would have to wait.
    She knew that in due course