‘Any more of them little scones in the oven?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I could do with another one to go with a cup of tea I see you’re a-makin’. And I’ll be bound you’ve butter in the larder; I does like butter on a scone.’

Glenys sighed, but already she had learned that country folk seldom refused food to anyone, so she took one of the scones off the cooling tray, split it and spread it with the butter she had placed ready on the dresser behind her. The little man crammed the buttered scone into his mouth. ‘Master’ll be comin’ along in a few minutes with your young man, missy,’ he said thickly. ‘Them scones is prime. I could do with another.’

Glenys shook her head. ‘I think you’ve had quite enough,’ she said firmly. ‘And now, if you want to see Mr Griffiths . . .’

The man clapped a filthy hand to his mouth and spoke through his fingers. ‘If I weren’t forgettin’! The missus – Mrs Evans – said she were in the grocer’s a couple of days ago when Mrs Weather come in. She telled the missus she were after dried fruit to make farmhouse loaves to sell at the market when the weather clears. Only the chap had run out, but this mornin’ when the missus got a lift into town with the milk lorry, Mr Jones at the shop give her a big ol’ bag of dried fruit for Mrs Weather.’ He plunged a hand into the great flappy waterproof he wore, and produced a large blue bag with the word Sultanas printed across it. ‘There you are, missus,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Payment for your scones, if you like, only Mrs Evans said you can pay her next time you’re passin’.’

‘Thanks very much,’ Glenys said, trying to take the bag of sultanas without coming into direct contact with her visitor’s filthy paw. ‘Tell Mrs Evans . . .’ But the man was hastily slurping a large mug of sweetened tea, and cut across her.

‘I’ll tell her,’ he said hastily. ‘But I hear the master and your young feller a-comin’ across the yard, so I’d best be off.’ He had not bothered to remove his boots or overcoat when he came into the kitchen, and now went straight to the back door and opened it, letting in a cold draught of air and a few flakes of whirling snow, and leaving behind him not just the dirt from his boots but a good deal of dung as well. ‘Thanks for the grub, missus,’ he shouted over his shoulder. ‘I’ll tell your man that the kettle’s steamin’ on the hob, and the scones is out of the oven and ready for eatin’.’

‘Thanks, but . . .’ Glenys was beginning when the little man suddenly turned in his tracks and came back into the kitchen, still leaving the door wide.

‘I’ll take a couple to see me on me way,’ he said, and before Glenys had done more than open her mouth he had snatched two scones from the pile on the wire cooling tray and was charging across the kitchen and into the yard, apparently oblivious of the fact that he had failed to close the door.