Felicity's fundraising plans were very grand.

A gala dinner at a hotel in Guildford. A hundred and fifty pounds a ticket. A silent auction with holidays in Tuscany and dinners in London. A string quartet.

She also had ideas for the new hall itself.

“Modern,” she said at the parish meeting. “Glass. Clean lines. Something that says Little Hadleigh has moved into the twenty-first century.”

“What about the old oak doors?” asked someone at the back. “Arthur Pritchard's doors?” Felicity made a little face.

“They're very… rustic. I don't think they'd fit the new look. They'll go in the skip with the rest of the old building.”

I sat very still in the back row.

Then Felicity announced that the biggest donor would be given the honour of naming the new hall. She and her husband had pledged fifty thousand pounds, she said. The largest gift so far.

She didn't say it. She didn't need to.

Everyone in the village was already calling it Harrington Hall.