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simply admiring what she had with fierce pride, imagining all she could improve if she had money, worrying about tiles and rot and still fortifying her private attitude that anyone who did not want to live, not only in her village, but more particularly in her house, must be stark, staring mad. She was quite sure she did not think this was simply because the polite and fulsome remarks of her discreet paying guests over the years had gone to her head: it was simply a fact.
    She strolled uphill.A narrow stream flowed down on the right, with miniature bridges crossing to the front gates of the houses, the sound of the water a bubbling accompaniment to the civilized bustle of newly opened shops. It might have been the presence of this quaint addition which had made the village, high street and all, defy the presence, and accoutrements of the conventional summer tourist. There was no loud music here, no amusement arcade; no sellers of buckets, spades and windshields for the beach; no souvenirs or seaside rock. One shop selling ice cream and Devon fudge, three cafes and a fish and chip shop catered for all of that, disdainfully offering the visitors more than they deserved, while the rest remained essentially a place for the graceful enjoyment of those who lived in it, in a style befitting a population with an average age in excess of Diana’s own fifty-seven years.
    Costa Geriatrica, Elisabeth had jeered. Everyone here wanders round on sticks, discussing the state of their gardens and their health: no wonder it’s so lovely. The only thing likely to cause a riot here would be a hosepipe ban. Well, perhaps by now Elisabeth had discovered there were some advantages to a place which made allowances for the less than fully mobile, despite the hills.
    â€œGood morning,Mrs. Kennedy … Lovely day.”
    â€œOh, yes, gorgeous. Aren’t we lucky?”
    â€œThe lamb’s good today. Saved you some. Delivery about lunchtime?”
    One did not carry one’s own heavy shopping in this town. One might carry back in triumph the dress you had bought from Molly’s if you were thus inclined (Diana was not; too vulgar), but that was all. Transaction complete (on the account, please), she strolled through more of the same. Fruit, asparagus, furniture polish, paper goods, environmentally friendly cleaners, polite greetings given and reciprocated with a regularity and consistency which Diana regarded as quintessentially English and infinitely reassuring. Then on her way home, she was jarred by a sudden memory of Elisabeth lying in bed, reclining in state, announcing her own, alien opinions. “My God, Mumsy wumsy, if that man in the butcher’s smiles any wider, he’ll disappear up his own arse.”
    â€œYou’d rather live in your crazy bell tower than
here?”
    â€œYou bet. Soon as I can.”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with people being pleasant?”
    â€œNothing, Mumsy. If only it weren’t so fucking relentless.”
    D iana detoured home, excusing her self-imposed delay on the basis that young Matthew was keeping Elisabeth company, and thus making the mood of the patient sweeter. She herself felt suddenly helpless, furious that fate was undermining her yet again. Angry, that with all her hard won dignity, she still carried that contagion of pity which made people so sweetly careful of her, as if she were afflicted with some antisocial disease. Lately it had been less infectious because she was so obviously strong, but then the same unkind fate which ruled her life sent home to roost the daughter who was scarcely mentioned in the shops, because she had brought the trouble with her. No, not brought it, reinvented it. Disinterred it, unable to let it rest. With one daughter already in the graveyard, Diana Kennedy felt that these were challenges that she simply did not deserve. Only an iron will could resist them.
    S teven Davey,son-in-law to Diana, watched her from the top window of the