‘Got the cow,’ crowed Lily to Summer as they ate their lunch together in the school canteen.

‘I’m not with you, Lil.’

Lily rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, do try and keep up. You know I friended Windy on Facebook?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I’ve been getting to know some of her old pals – not that she had many.’

‘What’s the point in that? They live in London.’

Lily sighed. ‘Yes, but they went to Windy’s old school.’

‘OK?’

‘And now I know why Windy had to change schools.’

‘Oh yeah?’ Summer shovelled a forkful of macaroni cheese into her mouth. ‘So?’

‘So, it’s dynamite.’

Summer stopped chewing. ‘Tell me.’

‘No. I want it to be a surprise.’

Summer lost interest and ate some more of her lunch.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me when I’m going to spring this surprise?’ said Lily, annoyed that Summer wasn’t more curious, wasn’t more desperate to try and prise the information out of her.

‘No, because the chances are you won’t tell me that either and, even if you did, it wouldn’t be a surprise then, would it.’ She chewed some more.

Lily shook her head and wondered why she bothered with Summer except she was the only other kid from her class who lived in her village, her dad was pretty loaded and she had a pony which she allowed Lily to ride. She had her uses.

‘This surprise,’ said Summer. ‘Are you going to spring it soon?’

‘Dunno. Got to make sure I can do it without getting caught.’

Summer lowered her fork onto her plate. ‘Doesn’t sound like it’s something Mr Smithson’s going to like.’

‘Of course he won’t. But once the cat is out of the bag there’s no way anyone – even Smithy – will be able to stuff it back in again.’

‘Why would Smithy want to stuff a cat in a bag?’

Lily stared at Summer in slack-jawed disbelief. How thick could you get? Well, if Summer was anything to go by, the answer was – unbelievably.

*

All through Tuesday, Olivia tried to keep herself busy, trying to do anything that would stop her thinking about Nigel and his badminton club and the fact that, when he’d had his shower before he left for work, she’d crept out of bed and taken one of his trainers out of his sports bag. She’d thought about taking both out but had decided it would have left the bag feeling too light and he might have noticed. And now she was trying to act as normally as possible while waiting for her husband to get back in. Finally, while she was watching the late evening news, she saw the lights of his car sweep up the drive and the click of his key in the lock. He came in, dropped his sports bag by the front door and headed for the kitchen.

‘Evening, darling,’ Olivia forced herself to say despite her hammering heart. ‘There’s supper for you in the fridge if you’d like it.’

‘I need a drink first,’ said Nigel picking up the wine bottle on the counter and pouring himself a glass.

‘Sure,’ said Olivia. ‘And how was badminton?’

‘Oh, just fine. Won my match.’

Did you now, she thought, as she willed her heart not to break.

*

Olivia was trying to carry on as normal the next morning, and failing miserably, when the doorbell rang. It was Heather.

‘Come in,’ said Olivia.

‘And dare I ask? asked Heather as she stepped over the threshold.

Olivia led the way into the kitchen and picked up the sports bag which she put on the work surface and began to unpack. She held up the pair to the single trainer she’d removed.

‘I asked Nigel how his badminton was last night. He said he won his match.’ Then she held his T-shirt against her nose and sniffed. ‘And this still smells of fabric conditioner, not sweat.’

‘Oh.’

‘So, what’s he up to? What is he doing on a Tuesday night that gives him a reason to stay up in town for a few extra hours and which doesn’t involve badminton?’

Heather sighed and shrugged.

‘I’m not imagining it and I can only think of one thing. I mean, can you think of anything else?’

Heather stared at Olivia, not wishing to supply the obvious answer.

Olivia shook her head. ‘What do I do, Heather? Do I pretend everything is OK and that I know nothing, or do I confront him? Have it out?’

‘Maybe there is something going on but Nigel wanting to downsize doesn’t mean he’s planning to leave you. Maybe he’s not playing badminton but maybe he needs money for his pension or he wants to set up a trust fund for the kids...’

‘Or maybe Nigel’s having an affair and is getting his other’ – Olivia made double quotation marks in the air with her fingers – ‘“affairs” in order before he gets rid of me.’

‘Then you have to talk to him.’ She reached out and gave Olivia a hug. For Olivia this simple act of kindness was the last straw and she broke down in sobs.

Later that day the papers for the next day’s council meeting appeared in the Dropbox on Olivia’s iPad. They were, she thought, a welcome distraction – something to think about other than what might be happening to her marriage. She began to read through the applications for planning consent. Coombe Farm was one of the issues to be discussed.

Olivia stared at the screen of her tablet as she read the detailed application from the developers. In her head she knew she ought to oppose these houses, but her heart told her that it was, despite the proximity to some social housing, altogether a nicer, classier estate than the jerry-built one that was going up behind the station. If her life was about to go belly-up, she thought she’d rather wind up at Coombe Farm than Beeching Rise. She carried on reading the council papers and decided that there was only one course of action she could take. She knew it would make her unpopular but, given the mess her life seemed to be in, a bit of unpopularity would be a small price to pay if she could make her future less bleak.

*

Joan got the big key out of her mac pocket and opened the vestry door, stepping into the cool room that, as always, smelt faintly musty. She slipped off her mac and put on her pinny which she kept hanging up in the next cupboard to the one the vicar kept his vestments in. Then she picked up a tin of polish and a couple of yellow dusters and made her way into the body of the church. Pews and pulpit today, she decided as she began to work. She headed to the back of the church. She had a method; first she’d work from the back forwards, down the pews on the left of the main aisle then the ones on the right, till she got to the ones nearest the main church door. That way nothing got missed. And while she was at it she’d have a look at the kneelers.

Joan slid into the pew the furthest from the altar and began polishing and dusting the shelf for the prayer books, shuffling along every few seconds to reach the next section. As she went she picked the kneelers off their hooks and gave each one a once-over. Those that needed some repairs she left on the seat. She worked quickly and efficiently and in silence. She was about halfway along when she heard someone else enter the church.

She glanced towards the vestry door from behind a pillar. It was the vicar. As she watched she saw him go to the choir stalls and take a seat. Then he bowed his head. Joan carried on cleaning, being as quiet as possible, not wanting to disturb his prayers.

As she finished the pew she was working on she stood up to tiptoe into the next one and was stopped in her tracks by a noise. A sob.

This ain’t right, she thought. She stood stock-still and listened. Another muffled wail. What on earth was up with the Reverend? Something wasn’t right if he was here, on his own, having a cry. Joan leaned on the end of the pew. Should she go to him? Should she pretend she wasn’t around? But what if he spotted her? She made up her mind. She dropped her can of spray polish on the old stone flags. It made a resounding and satisfactory clatter.

‘Darn it,’ she said loudly as she made a show of scuffling around on the floor to retrieve it.

‘Is that you, Joan?’ she heard the vicar call.

‘Oh, Reverend! Good heavens, you gave me quite a start! I didn’t hear you come in.’ She squeezed her way through to the main aisle. ‘I just popped in to give the pews a once-over. I hope I’m not in your way.’

‘No, no, you carry on. I came in to have a bit of a think but you needn’t mind me.’

‘Whatever you say, Reverend.’ Joan turned to go back to where she’d left off when an agonising stab of pain hit her. She gasped, involuntarily. Brian jumped out of his seat and ran towards her.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Not really,’ said Joan, lowering herself into a pew. She shut her eyes as she waited for the spasm to pass. Brian crouched beside her and patted her hand.

‘Don’t tell me this is heartburn,’ he said.

‘Yes, it is,’ Joan insisted through clenched teeth.

Brian stared at her. ‘Look, Joan, call me a fusspot but this is twice I’ve seen you in pain. I think I ought to tell Bert you’re not well.’

Joan opened her eyes and stared at him. ‘You breathe a word to Bert and I’ll tell Heather you were in here crying.’

‘I wasn’t.’

Joan pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘Lying, and in God’s house.’ She tutted.

Brian stared back at her, defiantly, but couldn’t hold her gaze. ‘Deal,’ he said. ‘But I want you to promise me you’ll see the doc.’

‘I’ll promise to do that, if you’ll tell me what’s bothering you.’ Wincing, Joan budged up along the pew and patted the space she’d left. ‘Come on, Reverend, what’s so terrible you can’t tell your missus?’

‘You really want to know?’

Joan nodded.

‘I... I think I’ve lost my faith.’

Joan almost said ‘Is that all?’ before she realised that, for the vicar, it was a very big deal indeed. ‘Is that what caused you to have that turn when you were giving your sermon the other Sunday?’

Brian nodded. ‘I felt I was on a cliff-edge – that there was nothing underneath me. It was terrifying and it was all I could think about. I lost the plot. I suddenly felt that my whole life had been a completely futile waste of time.’

‘Don’t say that, Reverend. Not with all that you’ve done for people over the years.’

Brian shook his head. ‘But for what?’

‘Does it matter if you’ve brought them comfort? It can’t have been wrong to do good.’

‘Maybe.’ He didn’t sound convinced.

She nodded, gravely. ‘So, what’s brought on this business with your faith?’

Brian sighed and shrugged. ‘That’s the point; I don’t know. It just went.’ He paused then said, ‘One day I felt like I was praying into a great big empty space, a void... nothing.’

‘So,’ said Joan, ‘there’s nothing to say it mayn’t come back then.’

‘I suppose.’

‘I mean, it might only be temporary.’

‘It might not be.’

‘But you don’t know. Like whatever it is that’s not right with me.’ Brian looked perplexed. ‘It may be the same with you – only the other way round, so to speak, cos you had something you wanted and it’s gone but you’d like it back. On the other hand I’ve got summat I don’t want and but I’m expecting it to go away and never return.’

‘Maybe.’ The vicar sounded supremely doubtful. ‘And in the meantime I’m being a complete hypocrite.’

‘The congregation don’t know that,’ said Joan. The spasm had passed and she spoke with more energy.

‘But I do.’

‘So?’

‘But it’s wrong. You said yourself it was wrong to lie in church.’

‘There’s lying and there’s not sharing everything with everyone.’ She saw Brian suppress a smile. ‘And, if you ask me, them what come to church believe, and they don’t need to know you’re having a bit of a moment with your faith. As long as you do everything you’re paid to do they’ll be happy. You having a crisis won’t help them and if your faith comes back no one need be any the wiser.’

‘And if it doesn’t?’

‘Don’t meet trouble halfway, I say.’

Brian stared at her. He was sure there was a deep theological argument that he should use to tell Joan that her reasoning was hopelessly flawed and yet... and yet what she said made sense in a perverse way.

‘What you got to lose, Reverend?’ Joan hauled herself to her feet. ‘And this ain’t getting the church clean,’ she said.

‘You promise me you’ll see the doc?’

‘I said I would, didn’t I?’

‘Good.’ Brian stayed in the pew looking at the altar as Joan huffed and puffed her way over to the side pews and carried on with her cleaning.