'What do you want to go to church for?' Martin said.

They were both slightly hung-over, Martin because he had had quite a lot of brandy, and Alice because she couldn't drink much of anything, anyway.

'I feel I'd like to. That's all. It's only an hour and Charlie will be resting. If you could just put the lamb in at half past eleven-'

'I wanted to be in the garden.'

'Then be in it. The children can come outside with you.'

'But the lamb-'

'You come inside to do that. It will take you all of two minutes.'

'I don't see why you want to go. You never go to ordinary church.'

'But I see,' Alice said, suddenly cross, 'why you don't want me to go. It won't do you any harm to have the children for an hour. I want to be somewhere quiet. I want to think.'

'Suppose I want to think?'

'Then you can go to evensong.'

He went out into the garden then, banging both halves of the stable door which failed to latch and bounced open again. Alice had a bad quarter of an hour putting Charlie down for his rest and finding a roasting tin for the lamb and Natasha's other gumboot and persuading James out of his pyjamas and into clothes, so that she had to run to church, which was uphill, and arrived very much out of breath and ill-prepared for calm.

The church was simple and strong and medieval. It had only a nave and a chancel and there was no stained glass in the windows, so that whatever natural light there was came in, uninterrupted. At the west end was a famous Norman font, carved with scenes from the life of John the Baptist ending with his lolling head on a charger, a scene that Miss Payne, who was in charge of the church flowers, liked to screen with a brass jug of golden rod or Michaelmas daisies or delphiniums. Mr Finch, of the shop, was sidesman in charge of books. He pressed Hymns A & M into Alice's hands most meaningfully.

She chose a pew at the back. The hassocks had been embroidered by the villagers to celebrate the Queen's Jubilee, each one representing animal or plant or bird life along the Pitt river. Alice knelt carefully on a bunch of kingcups. Ahead of her was a dozen or so backs, of which she recognized a few, and beyond them, Peter Morris in cassock and surplice. Idly she wondered who laundered its snowy folds. The organ began, a little breathlessly, played by Miss Pimm in her Windsmoor Sunday suit. The congregation rose stiffly to its feet.

Holding her prayerbook, Alice thought how much her father admired Cranmer's English. She remembered him giving a sudden impromptu lecture at supper one night on the iniquity of the banal and bloodless language of the modern service book. Pitcombe clearly had turned its thumbs down to the alternative services - what she held, she discovered, was in the still sonorous English of 1928. In the front of her prayerbook was stamped The Church of St Peter, Pitcombe' and underneath, in neat elderly script, 'Given in memory of Hilda Bryce, by her loving family'. Did anyone, she wondered, commemorate people that way any more?

She did not really notice what they said or sang, nor did she hear properly what Peter Morris said comfortably for ten minutes, from his pulpit, about St Paul's exhortations to the Romans, on being delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. She had said she wanted to think, but she didn't think. She simply sat, and looked at the whitewashed walls and the little monuments in stone and brass lamenting matchless husbands and beloved mothers and sons and observed how the pale sunlight came in and lit up the brass ends of the churchwardens' staffs like tiny flames. And then she knelt with everyone else and read aloud with them the prayer of St Chrysostom.

'Fulfil now, O Lord, the desires and petitions of thy servants, as may be most expedient for them.'

What, she wondered, were her desires and petitions, except that she wished to be rid of this preoccupation with the fluctuating graph of her unhappiness? She got up and followed everyone out, and Mrs Macaulay said how nice it was to see her in church, and Mr Finch smirked as he took her books, and Peter Morris clasped her hand warmly and told her to remember him to Charlie.

When she got home, they were all sitting round the kitchen table with mugs and the biscuit tin, and Clodagh Unwin was there too. She looked pale, and nothing like as self-possessed as the night before, and she was wearing butter yellow tights, and an enormous grey jersey that came half-way down her thighs, and grey suede boots. The moment Alice came in, Clodagh got up and went across to her, put her hands on Alice's arms and said, 'I came to say sorry. Because I was so horrible last night.'

Alice, startled, said, 'Oh, you weren't-'

'I was,' Clodagh said. 'I was awful. Ma said would I be particularly nice to you, but I was in a temper with her for something that's too boring to mention so I was particularly horrible instead.'

Alice moved away slightly.

'It doesn't matter,' she said. 'You were very nice to Martin.'

He gave a pleased guffaw from the table.

'Oh, please,' Clodagh said. Alice gave her a quick glance and saw her eyes were full of tears. 'Don't make so much of it. It doesn't matter. I didn't notice.'

'I don't know,' Clodagh said, with the beginning of a smile, 'if that doesn't make me feel worse.'

'Come on, Allie,' Martin said. 'Come on. Have some coffee.'

Alice threw her coat over the chair back and reached for an apron on the hook behind the door to the hall.

'I've got to do the potatoes for lunch-'

'I'll do them,' Clodagh said, taking the apron. 'I'm a whizz at potatoes.'

James, who had decided Clodagh was delicious, pulled a chair up to the sink, giggling, so that he could splash about while she peeled. Natasha, who felt a keen desire for Clodagh's boots, stayed by the table to devise a scheme by which she might try them on even if they were going to be too big, which they were, she knew, but all the same . . . Alice, not won over, went to fetch the potatoes from the larder and the peeler from a drawer and a saucepan. She dumped the potatoes in the sink and Clodagh seized her wrist.

'Please forgive me,' she said. Her voice was an urgent hiss and her curious grey-gold eyes were bright with intensity.

'You made me feel a fool last night,' Alice said, 'and you're doing it again now. I don't like it. That's all.'

Clodagh dropped her wrist. In a voice so low only Alice could hear it, she said, 'You were the only person last night who didn't look a fool.'

Alice went away to find carrots and a bag of frozen peas. When she came back, Martin had gone out again, James and Clodagh were singing and splashing at the sink and Natasha, without being asked, was laying the table, back to front.

'Clodagh's staying,' Natasha said. 'Daddy asked her.'

Clodagh turned round.

'But I won't if you don't want me to.'

'Of course stay. It's very ordinary lunch-'

'You're really kind.'

Natasha stretched up to her mother's ear.

'Oh I so want her boots-'

'Aren't they smart.'

Without turning round, Clodagh kicked her boots off backwards.

Try them.'

Natasha gave a little squeal. James put his arms around Clodagh's waist in case the boots should create a bond between her and Natasha. She dropped a kiss on his head and he looked up at her with passion.

'You've no idea,' Clodagh said, 'how unutterable American children are. We had one that used to come to the apartment loaded with toys and if you admired the smallest thing, he'd say. "Don't touch. OK?" at the top of his voice.'

James thought this was brilliantly funny.

'Don't touch, OK, don't touch, OK, don't touch, OK-'

'Look-' Natasha breathed, bending over to admire her feet.

'You look like Puss in Boots.'

'I love them.' She looked up at Clodagh. 'Are they American?'

'Sure thing, baby,' Clodagh said with an American accent, 'Henry Bendel, no less.'

Martin came back with a bottle of wine. He was humming. He kissed Alice's cheek on his way to fetch a corkscrew and then again on his way to fetch the glasses. At the second kiss, she laughed.

'Feeling better?'

'Yes,' she said, surprised.

'I expect church made you feel better,' Natasha said, stroking the boots, 'I think it's supposed to.'

When everyone laughed she looked tremendously pleased and said, in Gwen's phrase, 'Well, this really is my day and no mistake.'

Martin poured wine for himself and Clodagh and Alice. Clodagh finished the potatoes and put them on to boil and scooped the peelings out of the sink into the rubbish bin. Alice stared at her.

'Isn't that right?' Clodagh said. She had pushed up the sleeves of her jersey and stood there, shoeless, like a grey and yellow bird.

'It's absolutely right. I just don't associate New York flat dwellers with-'

'Oh,' Clodagh said quickly, smiling at her, 'I always did things like that. I used to scrub floors and stuff as therapy when the whole scene got a bit heavy.'

She came round the table to where Alice was peeling carrots and looked at her intently.

'Hello,' she said.

Alice took a quick swallow of her wine.

'Is this another kind of game? Like last night?'

'No,' Clodagh said. 'I could kill myself for last night.'

Alice's hands were shaking. She put down her wine glass not at all steadily.

'You haven't met my baby.'

'He's so sweet,' Natasha said, still mooning over her feet. 'He's the nicest baby in my class.'