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The town of Ivory Meadows was postcard pretty.  It seemed the perfect place in which to escape and hide. I thought it would be a safe haven for me and my daughter, Rosemary.

But trouble seemed to follow me like a stranger in a hooded cloak, lurking in the shadows, waiting ready to pounce. This was something of a nuisance, seeing as all I wanted was a quiet life.

 Let me explain.

 The day Rosemary and I arrived in Ivory Meadows, we found it brimming with banners and Union Jack flags, bunting zig-zagged across the street from every roof top, dancing happily in the breeze. Fairy lights twinkled over the crumbling little bridge, their reflection in the river lighting up the grey summer’s day. It was as if the place hadn’t changed a bit in hundreds of years. Many of the black-and-white timber buildings were clearly in need of urgent repair and yet the whole place felt alive and breathing and beautiful. It felt good to be there. It felt for the first time in as long as I could remember like I, too, was alive and breathing, maybe even beautiful.

 Ladies hovered in rows along the pavement with their daughters, being careful not to dirty their best dresses, while men and boys chatted nearby in their hats and suits.

 A large imposing church stood right in the centre of the town, like an island in the midst of the tiny road running around it, shops lining each side of the street. The road was, for some reason, closed to traffic today. The walls of the church had been blackened by the passing of time and exhaust fumes, but it had a pretty bell tower and a huge stained-glass window, across which an enormous banner had been hung, saying ‘Welcome Home!’ A pretty flowerbed of roses stood just in front of the church, shielding it from the cars. The entrance was a battered old wooden door to the shady side of the church, opposite a hardware shop.

 Stood on the pavement outside the shop was a large man wearing a white apron, which was splattered with blood. His enormous hands were wrapped around his rotund belly as he watched the townsfolk gather. In spite of his forbidding demeanour, he had a kind face with heavyset features that seemed to smile without his lips moving. I guessed from his apron that he must be the local butcher and stopped to ask him what the celebration was in aid of.

 ‘Vicar and his new wife are coming home from honeymoon,’ he said, in a strong country accent.

 ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, not sure that I did.

 ‘Used to be tradition, back in Georgian times when the town was built, that when a local clergyman married while in office, the whole town would be decorated to welcome the happy couple home.

 ‘Reverend John Baker’s done a lot for our town so we decided to bring back the custom as a surprise for him.’

 ‘That’s a lovely thing to do,’ I said to the butcher.

 ‘You think?’ he asked, raising his eyebrow. ‘The supermarket chains tried to close me down, as they did the greengrocers, Dennis and Barbara Sullivan, Mr Morris from the hardware store, and Gillian the florist.

 ‘The vicar managed to persuade the local people to continue to shop at home rather than being tempted away by cheaper, substandard food and free parking.’

 ‘Has it worked?’ I asked.

 ‘Oh it’s working all right but it’s taken a good year, mind. There was them stubborn types who wouldn’t budge, thought development and progress was good for the town. Good for Ivory Meadows? That’s a lot of pantomime good for the town, more pantomime good for their pockets.’

 He winked at me and I smiled, grateful to him for not cursing in front of Rosie.

 ‘But it’s working; as I say, it took a good long time and we nearly had to knock it on the head but it’s working.’ There was a pause as I waited for him to continue. ‘As I say, we’ve got a lot to thank him for.’

Suddenly, there was a loud shout and everyone around us started to clap and cheer. The butcher immediately broke into a run, as if he’d heard a wild bull was charging over the hill. He darted across the road, and into the church, faster than his size looked able. Within seconds, a peel of bells echoed in the street.

 ‘They must be home,’ I said to Rosie, lifting her up so she could get a better view across the scores of people lining the street down to the bridge over the river.

 We watched as the vicar and his wife got out of their car in front of the church, looking somewhat bewildered. The crowd flocked around them, shaking the clergyman’s hand, patting him on the back and kissing his wife. The couple waved, said thank you, then took one look at each other and bolted for the car, locking the doors and driving quickly through the crowds round the church and up the vicarage drive.

 It seemed ungracious, considering all the trouble the townsfolk had gone to. He didn’t seem half the character the butcher had built him up to be.

 ‘Don’t like a fuss, the vicar, that’s his way,’ said the butcher, who was now back at my side.

 ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘My name’s Vivian, Vivian Myrtle.’

 ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said, ‘m’name’s Bill but you can call me whatever you like.’ And with a twinkle in his eye he was gone.