‘I’m sorry,’ Margaret declared, with a gleeful smile. ‘But your membership has lapsed.’

Dorothy narrowed her eyes but kept her decorum. ‘I think there’s some mistake. I paid my dues at Christmas. Just as I have every year since my Reginald died.’

‘Reggie… such a handsome man.’ Margaret raised her eyes to the sky. ‘But there’s no mistake. Your £30 was paid. That’s written here. But you’ve failed to meet your attendance quota. So club rules, chapter four, subsection—’

‘I beg your pardon? Since when has Mintfield Conservative Club had an attenda—’

‘Subsection 14. Addendum: January 2025. “All members must attend at least one event per quarter, except in case of certified illness or extended absence, pre-approved by the committee.”’

‘I don’t recall voting on tha—’

‘No, you were absent from this year’s AGM, due to…’ Margaret ran her finger down the paper, turned up the corners of her mouth, and raised her voice. ‘A recurring bladder complaint!’

Dorothy thought about leaning over and setting Margaret on fire with Reg’s old lighter. There’s no way the geriatrics inside the club would stir themselves from their half-pints and shuffle over quickly enough to save her, and the sandalwood rosary beads she never let go of would release quite the pleasing aroma.

‘But I’ve attended an event every two weeks,’ Dorothy said, holding up the monogrammed leather case that indicated her place on the Mintfield Mowers Crown Green team. She had never missed a game since replacing her ever-present husband, keeping his proud streak alive.

‘The bowling league is a district-organised competition and not an official club event,’ Margaret responded, just as she’d rehearsed. ‘And that brings us to the second matter.’

Dorothy braced herself.

‘Chapter seven, subsection three—’

‘Addendum: January 2025?’

‘Addendum: January 1946, actually. No private equipment will be used on club property without express written permission from the committee. So, both yourself and, sadly, the beautiful Reggie, have been regularly violating the rule book for more than 30 years by using those dusty old bowling balls.’

Dorothy considered violating Margaret’s skull with the blunt objects in her bag, but reasoned at least one member of her former marriage should resist violating this particular bag of obnoxiousness, regularly or not.

‘They’re called bowls, not balls,’ Dorothy corrected. She then spoke more carefully. ‘How do we go about getting my membership restored so I can play today’s match?’

‘I’m afraid we don’t,’ Margaret neared her triumphant conclusion. ‘You can appear before the committee at our next convenience and make your case for reinstatement, but that won’t be until…’ She made a show of checking the diary. ‘The first Thursday in September.’

There was a pause while Margaret closed the book and looked Dorothy square in the eye.

‘I could, of course, play with Reggie’s balls in the meantime, on your behalf, to keep his legacy intact,’ Margaret offered. ‘I’m sure the committee would approve in the circumstances. I’ve always been glad to meet Reggie’s needs when you’ve been unable.’

Dorothy had been right about the slow reactions of the elderly members of Mintfield Conservative Club. But, judging by the acrid smell of burning plastic, quite wrong about Margaret’s rosary being made of sandalwood.