Threats at Three by Ann Purser

he might still be able to persuade SOS into seeing the folly of the restoration proposal.
    The cricket wives were gathered in the kitchen preparing tea for the afternoon match. Gavin looked in, smiled his most charming, and asked if he might wander round. “I’m a newcomer, as you already know,” he said, addressing Floss, who seemed to be in charge. Her Ben was captain of the team, and she presided over sandwiches and cakes and umpteen cups of tea.
    Far from being bowled over by Gavin’s charm, Floss stared at him. “What do want to look round for?” she said sharply. “There’s nothing going on here today, except cricket.”
    Gavin bridled. “In case you’ve forgotten,” he said, “I am a SOS committee member and have every right to come and inspect the ‘shed’ we’re intending to pour money into for its restoration. And in any case, I have a meeting scheduled with John Thornbull—”
    “I suppose you can, then,” said Floss. “It’s just that we’ve been told to be very careful since the arson attempts. That’s all. Look round all you want, but don’t get in our way. Look, there’s John now, just parking his quad bike.”
    “Morning, Gavin,” John said. He led the way into a small room where meetings were held, and asked what exactly he wanted to talk about. He explained that he had several cricket matters to attend to, and hadn’t much time to spare.
    “Just wanted a few words about SOS,” Gavin said. “I felt a bit odd man out at the committee meeting, and had a sort of feeling you might be more in tune with me than the others.”
    John frowned. He was a Farnden man, born and bred, and he had no wish to side with this unpopular incomer. It was true, however, that he privately thought the others had grouped themselves unfairly against Gavin’s ideas, and though they were much too ambitious as they stood, a lot of them could be adapted to widen the scope of the soap box grand prix. After all, the man was young and keen, and that was not easy to find in Long Farnden.
    They talked for a while, and when Gavin left the hall and walked back up the muddy lane, he realised that he had gained nothing. John had been very polite, sympathetic, but in the end committed himself to nothing. Waste of time, then, Gavin decided. He could have been at home, playing with Cecilia.
    “Morning, young man,” said a voice behind him. It was Tony Dibson with his wife, Irene. Gavin could see that pushing Irene’s wheelchair through the muck on the lane was heavy going.
    “Here, let me have a push,” he said. “Been to church?”
    Tony said they were on their way home, and had stupidly decided to come along the footpath and home by the longer route.
    “The Thelwell girls have been along here,” Gavin said. “D’you remember those cartoons, Tony?”
    “O’ course I do,” the old man said firmly. “Long before you were born. Wicked little girls on small fat ponies. D’you want me to take over?”
    Gavin said he was fine, and added that his mother had loved the Thelwell brats on ponies and had kept books of them.
    Glad to talk about something other than SOS, Gavin chatted to Irene, asking her questions about her disability without reserve or false sympathy. Tony could tell she was warming to another side of Gavin Adstone. When they reached the Dibson’s gate, Gavin insisted on pushing the chair right into the house, and accepted an offer of coffee with what seemed to be genuine pleasure.
    But what is he up to? thought Tony suspiciously. Wouldn’t trust the bugger as far as I could throw him.
    “What a nice young man,” Irene said, after they had drunk coffee, chatted of this and that, and Gavin had left, promising to bring Cecilia and Kate to meet Irene.
     
     
    “GUESS WHO WAS IN CHURCH THIS MORNING,” GRAN SAID, TAKING off her summer hat and donning her apron in the kitchen.
    “President Obama?” said Derek.
    “How did you guess?” said Gran. “We had a lovely chat, but he had to get back to