deference she showed to senior Womenâs Institute members, and her suitable, socially responsible job. Liza, in her turn, tried not to be put off by Mrs Bettsâs refinement, bossiness and mauve mohair jerseys (todayâs had a pie-frill collar and three glass buttons) and to remember that Mrs Betts encouraged the kind of village community rallying that Colin Jenkinsâs wife declined to do.
âNow, Mrs Logan,â Mrs Betts said with an arch smile. âI know youâre not going to fail me.â
âI hope not,â Liza said.
Mrs Betts made a flourishing movement towards her anti-mud notice, and her coloured glass bracelets chinked together playfully.
âNaughty Dr Logan wouldnât sign this morning. Said he wasnât upset by Mr Prior and he didnât mind mud. All very well for you, I said, but what about poor Mrs Logan, visiting the old people down the lane that looks more like a field? To be perfectly honest, Mrs Logan, Mr Prior is taking more and more liberties with this village. I hear a nasty rumour that he wants to sell off the field next to your house for development. People like that have to be stopped early on, Mrs Logan. And thatâs where my petition comes in.â
Liza, who didnât in the least mind about the mud, but was alarmed at the threat of development, said, âAre you sure about that? About the field next to us?â
Mrs Betts leaned forward.
âBetween you and me, Iâve a friend on the local planning committee and he,â she paused so that Liza could draw interesting inference from the pronoun, inference flattering to Mrs Betts, âgave me to understand that an application has been submitted by Mr Prior. No more than a hint, mind you. Just giving me fair warning.â
âWhen did you hear this?â
âSaturday night.â
Liza thought of Mrs Betts and her friend in the lounge bar of The Keeperâs Arms, the pub in Kingâs Stoke, their neighbouring village. It had wall-bracket lights, shaded in red imitation silk, and fake-tapestry cushions, and kept a range of country wines which proclaimed themselves to be made from elderflowers, and wheat and whortleberries. She could imagine Mrs Betts saying, âMineâs a small port, please.â
âOh dear,â Liza said. âHave you told anyone?â
âJust yourself and Mrs Jago when she popped in for a âGet wellâ card. I would have mentioned it to Dr Logan but he was in such a rushââ
âSurgery,â Liza said appeasingly.
âOf course, Mrs Logan.â
Liza looked at the anti-mud petition. The Jagos hadnât signed nor had old Mrs Mossopâs family, but everyone else down her lane had spelled themselves out in capital letters. Mrs Betts held out a menacing pen.
âThank you, Mrs Logan. Such a help to have your support.â
Uncertainly, Liza signed. Mrs Betts pushed the postal order across the counter.
âI donât know who imagines we have a quiet life in the country, Mrs Logan. In my view, you canât let up for a minuteââ
The door from the road opened and admitted a decisive-looking woman in a waxed cotton jacket and corduroy trousers tucked into shapely rubber riding boots. Mrs Betts smoothed her mohair bosom and braced herself.
âGood afternoon, Mrs Prior.â
Liza gathered up her postal order in panic. Her signature on the petition seemed twice the size of anyone elseâs.
âHello, Susan. What a dreary day. Would you forgive me? I must dash. Imogenââ
The door banged behind her. Susan Prior glanced after her, glanced back at the counter, took in the petition and moved to the far end of the shop to examine, apparently, a rack of birthday cards.
âIt is quite beyond me,â she said carelessly, her back to Mrs Betts, âwhy people with the mentality of garden gnomes ever want to live in villages in the first place.â
At home, Sally was vacuuming the