They counted the donations out loud at the coffee morning. That was Felicity's idea.

“It encourages people,” she said. “A bit of friendly competition.”

So every Saturday in the church porch at St Michael's, Felicity Harrington opened the envelopes from the building fund box one by one and read out the amounts, while the village drank weak tea and ate shortbread.

“The Fosters. Five hundred pounds! Thank you, Richard.”

Applause.

“The Lyttons. A thousand! Marvellous.”

More applause.

Then she picked up a small white envelope with my handwriting on it.

She opened it. She took out a single twenty-pound note and held it up between two fingers, like something she'd found on the bottom of her shoe.

“Mrs Pritchard,” she said. “Twenty pounds.”

There was a small, awkward silence.

“Well,” said Felicity, with a bright smile. “Every little helps, I suppose. Thank you, Joan. Although we are trying to raise one point eight million, dear.”

Someone laughed. Then a few more people.

I smiled and drank my tea.

I was seventy-one years old. I'd been coming to St Michael's every Sunday for fifty years. And not one person in that porch had any idea what was in my bank account.