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that began to be switched off； and there were photographers unscrewing and dismantling and wrapping cables into hanks。 There were effusive thanks in the air and satisfied excitement and the overall glow of a job done well。
I waited； looking about me； discovering the changes from church to modern house。 The window glass； high up； was clear； not coloured。 The stone…flagged nave had rugs； no pews； fortable modern sofas pushed back against the wall to acmodate the crowd； and a large…screen television set。
A white…painted partition behind the throne platform cut off the view of what had been the altar area； but nothing had been done to spoil the sweep of the vaulted ceiling； built with soaring stone arches to the glory of God。
One would have to have a very secure personality； I thought； to choose to live in that place。
The media flock drifted down the nave and left with undimin…ished goodwill。 Patricia Huxford waved to them and closed her heavy door and； turning； was surprised to find me still inside。
'So sorry；' she said； and began to open the door again。
'I'm not with the photographers；' I said。 'I came to ask you about something else。'
'I'm tired；' she said。 'I must ask you to go。'
'You look beautiful；' I told her； 'and it will only take a minute。' I brought my scrap of rag out and showed it to her。 'If you are Patricia Huxford； did you weave this？'
'Trish；' she said absently。 'I'm called Trish。'
She looked at the strip of silk and then at my face。
'What's your name？' she asked。
'John。'
'John what？'
'John Sidney。'
John Sidney were my real two first names； the ones my young mother had habitually used。 'John Sidney； give us a kiss。' 'John Sidney； wash your face。' 'John Sidney； have you been fighting again？'
I often used John Sidney in my job： whenever； in fact； I didn't want to be known to be Sid Halley。 After the past months of all…too…public drubbing I wasn't sure that Sid Halley would get me anything anywhere but a swift heave…ho。
Trish Huxford； somewhere； I would have guessed； in the middle to late forties； was pretty； blonde （natural？）； small…framed and cheerful。 Bright observant eyes looked over my grey business suit； white shirt； unobtrusive tie； brown shoes； dark hair； dark eyes； unthreatening manner： my usual working confidence…inspiring exterior。
She was still on a high from the photo session。 She needed someone to help her unwind； and I looked…and was…safe。 Thankfully I saw her relax。
The amazing dress she had worn for the photographs was utterly simple in cut； hanging heavy and straight from her shoulders； floor length and sleeveless with a soft ruffled frill round her neck。 It was the cloth of the dress that staggered： it was blue and red and silver and gold； and it shimmered。
'Did you weave your dress？' I asked。
'Of course。'
'I've never seen anything like it。'
'No； you wouldn't； not nowadays。 Can I do anything for you？ Where did you e from？'
'London。 Saul Marcus suggested you might know who wove my strip of silk。'
'Saul！ How is he？'
'He has a white beard；' I said。 'He seemed fine。'
'I haven't seen him for years。 Will you make me some tea？ I don't want marks on this dress。'
I smiled。 'I'm quite good at tea。'
She led the way past the throne and round the white…painted screen。 There were choir stalls beyond； old and untouched； and an altar table covered by a cloth that brought me to a halt。 It was of a brilliant royal blue with shining gold Greek motifs woven into its deep hem。 On the table； in the place of religious altar furniture； stood an antique spinning wheel； good enough for Sleeping Beauty。 Above the table； arched clear glass windows rose to the roof。
'This way；' Patricia Huxford manded； and； leading me past the choir stalls； turned abruptly through a narrow doorway which opened onto what could once probably have been a vestry and was now a small modern kitchen with a bathroom beside it。
'My bed is in the south transept；' she told me； 'and my looms are in the north。 You might expect us to be going to drink China tea with lemon out of a silver teapot； but in fact I don't have enough time for that sort of thing； so the tea bags and mugs are on that shelf。'
I half filled her electric kettle and plugged it in； and she spent the time walking around watching the miraculous colours move and mingle in her dress。
Intrigued； waiting for the water to boil； I asked； 'What is it made of？'
'What do you think？'
'Er； it looks like 。。。 well。。。 gold。'
She laughed。 'Quite right。 Gold； silver thread； and silk。'
I rather clumsily filled the mugs。
'Milk？'she suggested。
'No； thank you。'
'That's lucky。 The crowd that's just left finished it off。' She gave me a brilliant smile； picked up a mug by its handle and returned to the throne； where she sat neatly on the vast red velvet chair and rested a thin arm delicately along gilt carving。 The dress fell into sculptured folds over her slender thighs。
'The photographs；' she said； 'are for a magazine about a festival of the arts that Chichester is staging all next summer。'
I stood before her like some mediaeval page： stood chiefly because there was no chair nearby to sit on。
'I suppose；' she said； 'that you think me madly eccentric？'
'Not madly。'
She grinned happily。 'Normally I wear jeans and an old smock。' She drank some tea。 'Usually I work。 Today is playacting。'
'And magnificent。'
She nodded。 'No one； these days； makes cloth of gold。'
'The Field of the Cloth of Gold；' I exclaimed。
'That's right。 What do you know of it？'
'Only that phrase。'
'The field was the meeting place at Guines； France； in June 1520； of Henry VIII of England and Francis I of France。 They were supposed to be making peace between England and France but they hated each other and tried to outdo each other in splendour。 So all their courtiers wore cloth woven out of gold and they gave each other gifts you'd never see today。 And I thought it would be historic to weave some cloth of gold for the festival 。。。 so I did。 And this dress weighs a ton； I may tell you。 Today is the only time I've worn it and I can't bear to take it off。'
'It's breathtaking；'I said。
She poured out her knowledge。 'In 1476 the Duke of Burgundy left behind a hundred and sixty gold cloths when he fled from battle against the Swiss。 You make gold cloth…like I made this…by supporting the soft gold on threads of silk； and you can recover the gold by burning the cloth。 So when I was making this dress； that's what I did with the pieces I cut out to make the neck and armholes。 I burnt them and collected the melted gold。'
'Beautiful。'
'You know something？' she said。 'You're the only person who's seen this dress who hasn't asked how much it cost。'
'I did wonder。'
'And I'm not telling。 Give me your strip of silk。'
I took her empty mug and tucked it under my left arm； and in my right hand held out the rag； which she took； and I found her looking with concentration at my left hand。 She raised her eyes to meet my gaze。
'Is it。。。？' she said。
'Worth its weight in gold；' I said flippantly； 'Yes。'
I carried the mugs back to the ki