ir with no lap waiting to catch it。
I
Pagford Parish Council was； for its size； an impressive force。 It met once a month in a pretty Victorian church hall； and attempts to cut its budget； annex any of its powers or absorb it into some newfangled unitary authority had been strenuously and successfully resisted for decades。 Of all the local councils under the higher authority of Yarvil District Council； Pagford prided itself on being the most obstreperous； the most vocal and the most independent。
Until Sunday evening； it had prised sixteen local men and women。 As the town’s electorate tended to assume that a wish to serve on the Parish Council implied petence to do so； all sixteen councillors had gained their seats unopposed。
Yet this amicably appointed body was currently in a state of civil war。 An issue that had been causing fury and resentment in Pagford for sixty…odd years had reached a definitive phase； and factions had rallied behind two charismatic leaders。
To grasp fully the cause of the dispute it was necessary to prehend the precise depth of Pagford’s dislike and mistrust of the city of Yarvil； which lay to its north。
Yarvil’s shops； businesses； factories； and the South West General Hospital； provided the bulk of the employment in Pagford。 The small town’s youths generally spent their Saturday nights in Yarvil’s cinemas and nightclubs。 The city had a cathedral； several parks and two enormous shopping centres； and these things were pleasant enough to visit if you had sated yourself on Pagford’s superior charms。 Even so； to true Pagfordians； Yarvil was little more than a necessary evil。 Their attitude was symbolized by the high hill； topped by Pargetter Abbey； which blocked Yarvil from Pagford’s sight； and allowed the townspeople the happy illusion that the city was many miles further away than it truly was。
II
It so happened that Pargetter Hill also obscured from the town’s view another place； but one that Pagford had always considered particularly its own。 This was Sweetlove House； an exquisite； honey…coloured Queen Anne manor； set in many acres of park and farmland。 It lay within Pagford Parish； halfway between the town and Yarvil。
For nearly two hundred years the house had passed smoothly from generation to generation of aristocratic Sweetloves； until finally； in the early 1900s； the family had died out。 All that remained these days of the Sweetloves’ long association with Pagford； was the grandest tomb in the churchyard of St Michael and All Saints； and a smattering of crests and initials over local records and buildings； like the footprints and coprolites of extinct creatures。
After the death of the last of the Sweetloves； the manor house had changed hands with alarming rapidity。 There were constant fears in Pagford that some developer would buy and mutilate the beloved landmark。 Then； in the 1950s； a man called Aubrey Fawley purchased the place。 Fawley was soon known to be possessed of substantial private wealth； which he supplemented in mysterious ways in the City。 He had four children； and a desire to settle permanently。 Pagford’s approval was raised to still giddier heights by the swiftly circulated intelligence that Fawley was descended； through a collateral line； from the Sweetloves。 He was clearly half a local already； a man whose natural allegiance would be to Pagford and not to Yarvil。 Old Pagford believed that the advent of Aubrey Fawley meant the return of a charmed era。 He would be a fairy godfather to the town； like his ancestors before him； showering grace and glamour over their cobbled streets。
Howard Mollison could still remember his mother bursting into their tiny kitchen in Hope Street with the news that Aubrey had been invited to judge the local flower show。 Her runner beans had taken the vegetable prize three years in a row； and she yearned to accept the silver…plated rose bowl from a man who was already； to her； a figure of old…world romance。
III
But then； so local legend told； came the sudden darkness that attends the appearance of the wicked fairy。
Even as Pagford was rejoicing that Sweetlove House had fallen into such safe hands； Yarvil was busily constructing a swath of council houses to its south。 The new streets； Pagford learned with unease； were consuming some of the land that lay between the city and the town。
Everybody knew that there had been an increasing demand for cheap housing since the war； but the little town； momentarily distracted by Aubrey Fawley’s arrival； began to buzz with mistrust of Yarvil’s intentions。 The natural barriers of river and hill that had once been guarantors of Pagford’s sovereignty seemed diminished by the speed with which the red…brick houses multiplied。 Yarvil filled every inch of the land at its disposal； and stopped at the northern border of Pagford Parish。
The town sighed with a relief that was soon revealed to be premature。 The Cantermill Estate was immediately judged insufficient to meet the population’s needs； and the city cast about for more land to colonize。
It was then that Aubrey Fawley （still more myth than man to the people of Pagford） made the decision that triggered a festering sixty…year grudge。
Having no use for the few scrubby fields that lay beyond the new development； he sold the land to Yarvil Council for a good price； and used the cash to restore the warped panelling in the hall of Sweetlove House。
Pagford’s fury was unconfined。 The Sweetlove fields had been an important part of its buttress against the encroaching city； now the ancient border of the parish was to be promised by an overspill of needy Yarvilians。 Rowdy town hall meetings； seething letters to the newspaper and Yarvil Council； personal remonstrance with those in charge – nothing succeeded in reversing the tide。
The council houses began to advance again； but with one difference。 In the brief hiatus following pletion of the first estate； the council had realized that it could build more cheaply。 The fresh eruption was not of red brick but of concrete in steel frames。 This second estate was known locally as the Fields； after the land on which it had been built； and was marked as distinct from the Cantermill Estate by its inferior materials and design。
It was in one of the Fields’ concrete and steel houses； already cracking and warping by the late 1960s； that Barry Fairbrother was born。
IV
In spite of Yarvil Council’s bland assurances that maintenance of the new estate would be its own responsibility； Pagford – as the furious townsfolk had predicted from the first – was soon landed with new bills。 While the provision of most services to the Fields； and the upkeep of its houses； fell to Yarvil Council； there remained matters that the city； in its lofty way； delegated to the parish： the maintenance of public footpaths； of lighting and public seating； of bus shelters and mon land。
Graffiti blossomed on the bridges spanning the Pagford to Yarvil road； Fields bus shelters were vandalized； Fields teenagers strewed the play park with beer bottles and threw rocks at the street lamps。 A local footpath； much favoured by tourists and ramblers； became a popular spot for Fields youths to congregate； ‘and worse’； as Howard Mollison’s mother put it darkly。 It fell to Pagford Parish Council to clean； to repair and to replace； and the funds dispersed by Yarvil were felt from the first to be inadequate for the time and expense required。
No part of Pagford’s unwanted burden caused more fury or bitterness than the fact that Fields children now fell inside the catchment area of St Thomas’s Church of England Primary School。 Young Fielders had the right to don the coveted blue and white uniform； to play in the yard beside the foundation stone laid by Lady Charlotte Sweetlove and to deafen the tiny classrooms with their strident Yarvil accents。
It swiftly became mon lore in Pagford that houses in the Fields had bee the prize and goal of every benefit…supported Yarvil family with school…age children； that there was a great ongoing scramble across the boundary line from the Cantermill Estate； much as Mexicans streamed into Texas。 Their beautiful St Thomas’s – a mag for professional muters to Yarvil； who were attracted by the tiny classes； the rolltop desks； the aged stone building and the lush green playing field – would be overrun and swamped by the offspring of scroungers； addicts and mothers whose children had all been fathered by different men。
This nightmarish scenario had never been fully realized； because while there were undoubtedly advantages to St Thomas’s there were also drawbacks： the need to buy the uniform； or else to fill in all the forms required to qualify for assistance for the same； the necessity of attaining bus passes； and of getting up earlier to ensure that the children arrived at school on time。 Some households in the Fields found these onerous obstacles； and their children were absorbed instead by the large plain…clothes primary school that had been built to serve the Cantermill Estate。 Most of the Fields pupils who came to St Thomas’s blended in well with their peers in Pagford； some； indeed； were admitted to be perfectly nice children。 Thus Barry Fairbrother had moved up through the school； a popular and clever class clown； only occasionally noticing that the smile of a Pagford parent stiffened when he mentioned the place where he lived。
Nevertheless； St Thomas’s was sometimes forced to take in a Fields pupil of undeniably disruptive nature。 Krystal Weedon had been living with her great…grandmother in Hope Street when the time came for her to start school； so that there was really no way of stopping her ing； even though； when she moved back to the Fields with her mother at the age of eight； there were high hopes locally that she would leave St Thomas’s for good。
Krystal’s slow passage up the school had resembled the passage of a goat through the body of a boa constrictor； being highly visible and unfortable for both parties concerned。 Not that Krystal was always in class： for much of her career at St Thomas’s she had been taught one…on…one by a special teacher。
By a malign stroke of fate； Krystal had been in the same class as Howard and Shirley’s eldest granddaughter； Lexie。