To her question, ‘Shouldn’t we be going in there—where the tea is?’ Miss Store had looked scornfully at the parlour at the back of the courtyard, with a sign on it which read, ‘Private Function—Tea’ and said, ‘Goodness gracious, no. We want to be in the bar.’ She was right, too. Everyone else in Langford had had the same idea, it seemed, for on opening the door Tess was hit with a wall of sound, the smell of sweaty bodies, beer, perfume—and heat. The heat was overpowering—the low-ceilinged rooms of the Feathers meant it was always warm but today of all days, it was almost unbearable. Miss Store, who was small and surprisingly wiry for a woman of her years and vision, disappeared almost immediately into the crowd, worming under the armpits of her fellow citizens while Tess and Francesca hung back at the door, almost afraid to go any further. ‘We could just go home…’ Tess said. ‘It’s pretty—’ ‘Are you kidding?’ Francesca said. ‘No way. This is a last hurrah.
