People started clapping. Slowly at first. Then everyone.

Sarah held out the microphone to me.

I walked to the front. My knees were shaking. I hadn't spoken in front of so many people since my wedding.

“I'm not much good at speeches,” I said. “Arthur was worse. So I'll be quick.”

I told them about the hinge. The folding ladders. 1983. The money that came in every year, that we never really touched.

“Arthur used to say money is like wood glue,” I said. “A little is useful. Too much makes a mess. So we kept it in the bank and lived in our cottage and waited until we knew what it was for.”

I looked up at the doors.

“When Stan restored them, he found something underneath the old varnish. Arthur had carved a little message at the bottom of the left-hand door. Nobody had seen it for forty years.”

I read it to them.

“A.P. 1979. For everyone.”

I had to stop for a moment.

“The twenty pounds,” I said, “was what I had in my purse that morning. It was mine. The rest was Arthur's. And now it's Little Hadleigh's.”

I handed the microphone back to Sarah.

“That's all,” I said. “The tea's getting cold.”