After the service, I went to see Arthur.

He's buried in the churchyard, under the big yew tree, where he always said he wanted to be. I take him flowers from our garden every week.

I sat on the little bench beside him. He made that bench too, years ago, for old Mrs Haddon's husband.

“They're going to throw your doors in a skip, Arthur,” I said.

The wind moved through the yew tree.

“They've taken me off the flowers. They've taken our pew. They laughed at my twenty pounds.”

I wasn't angry. I want to be honest about that. I was sad. Sad for the village, more than for me. The hall wasn't supposed to be for people with big hats and string quartets. It was supposed to be for the toddler group and the youth club and the pensioners and the food bank.

It was supposed to be for everyone.

Arthur always said money was like wood glue. A little is useful. Too much makes a mess. But he also used to say something else. When he was fixing something.

“If it's broken, Joanie, and you've got the tools, you fix it. You don't stand there tutting.”

I looked at his headstone for a long time.

Then I went home and rang our solicitor in Guildford.