The Arthur Pritchard Hall is never empty.

On Monday mornings, it's the toddler group. Twenty children banging drums and eating rice cakes.

On Tuesdays, it's the pensioners' lunch. Soup and a roll and a pudding, and Felicity Harrington doing the washing up with her sleeves rolled up.

On Wednesdays, the food bank. Nobody has to queue outside in the rain anymore.

On Thursday evenings, the youth club. Table tennis, pizza, and loud music I don't understand.

At weekends, it's birthday parties and wedding receptions and a ballroom dancing class for the over-sixties, which I go to now. I'm not very good.

Every group uses it for free. Every single one. That was the first condition, and it will never change. Mr Fenwick made sure of it.

I'm back on the flower rota. Felicity asked me herself. She said the modern arrangements had been “a mistake.”

And on Sundays, I sit in the front pew on the left again. Arthur's side is still worn smooth. The first Sunday back, I found a small card on the seat.

Reserved for Mrs Pritchard. Always.

It was in Gerald Pike's handwriting.