The Choir by Joanna Trollope

do the same if I was her.”
    There was a pause, and then Alexander put a five-pound note down on Sandra’s desk.
    “Funny you should say that. I often think I shouldn’t mind running away for a bit myself if I could. There’s the sherry money—sprint, will you, or the shops will shut and I’ll have to offer him Nescaéf.”
    “I had a most peculiar visit this morning,” Hugh Cavendish said. “Rather caught me on the hop, I’m afraid. Frank Ashworth came and gave me a spiel about the close being unwelcoming to Aldminster citizens, and then said he wanted the council to be able to buy a property here to make some sort of social centre where people could feel at home. He didn’t, of course, beat about the bush. He said that this was the house he had his eye on.”
    “
This
house!”
    The dean had recovered himself since the morning.
    “Naturally I made it very clear that it does not even begin, as a proposition.”
    “Is he
serious
?”
    “In essence, yes. I don’t think Frank Ashworth says anything idly, which is why I must report it to you, and to the next chapter meeting. I think he will pursue the idea and we must be armed. I’ve already thrown out the idea of the almshouses to him.”
    Alexander got up and went to lean against the mantelpiece.
    “I am absolutely appalled. Why does everything have to be downgraded, why is ‘excellence’ a dirty word, why are people allowed to behave precisely as they like and are even pandered to and provided with a beautiful setting to defile—”
    “I think,” the dean said smoothly, “that Frank Ashworth is an old-fashioned socialist and believes in the essential goodness of humankind.”
    “You don’t believe that!”
    The dean said nothing.
    “Have you come here,” Alexander said loudly, “to tell me that you intend to propose the selling of this house to the council at the next chapter meeting?”
    “On the contrary. I have come to warn you of what Frank Ashworthhas in mind and to discuss with you our tactics when he returns to the fray, which he surely will.”
    “Is the council behind him?”
    “If it isn’t now, it soon will be. We must present a united front. The canons won’t be a problem, I’m glad to say.”
    “Is this house covered by the statutes?”
    The dean said carefully, “I thought it was, but I fear I was wrong. There
was
a revision of cathedral property under Cromwell, but of course this house is just too young for inclusion in that.”
    Alexander sat down again.
    “It was good of you to come. I am, after all, the headmaster and must live where I am told.”
    The dean leaned forward and said in a very different and solicitous voice, “My dear fellow, I can’t tell you how sorry I am—”
    “The pressures build up, you know,” Alexander said hurriedly, desperate to prevent his mentioning Felicity’s name, “you know how they do—”
    “Indeed, indeed—”
    “I’ll think about this proposal. Perhaps the almshouses really might—”
    “If anyone should speak to you, perhaps you would say that the matter is under review by the dean and chapter?”
    It dawned upon Alexander that the purpose of the dean’s visit had in truth been to condole with him over his vanished wife rather than to consult him over Frank Ashworth’s proposition, which, after all, he had no power to affect, one way or the other. He said rather heartily, in an attempt at gratitude, “At least we have the launch of the organ to look forward to.”
    The sun rose in the dean’s countenance.
    “That will be a great event. The tickets were completely sold out two weeks ago.”
    He stood up and put a hand on Alexander’s shoulder.
    “To tell you the truth, I see no point in selling this house. So rest assured. If the council have money to burn, they can erect some purpose-built leisure centre.” He paused. “And I will pray for good news for you.”
    When he had gone, Alexander poured himself another glass of sherry and then walked the length of the