By the time the sun was setting in a glory of tiny pink clouds, Glenys realised that she was exhausted. She stopped by a little stream and splashed water in her face, but knew she was most definitely not looking her best. She would simply have to recover herself a little before facing Sam once more. But where should she go? She could scarcely expect to re-enter Weathercock Farm without running the gauntlet of critical stares as well as questions. She could just imagine Mo: ‘Where’s you been, Auntie Glenys? Did you fall down in a bog? Why, you’ve muck up to the knees, nearly as dirty as Pete the Sheep. And is that hay in your hair?’

Glenys glanced down at herself, and despite her weariness she had to bite back a laugh. She was dirty, scratched and bruised, and her hair, she guessed, must look like a bird’s nest. She had torn the skirt of her pink gingham dress, and one of her sandals lacked a buckle. Once more, the desire to laugh nearly overcame her. She could not possibly face the family quite yet; she would definitely try to tidy herself up a bit before she went indoors. She needed somewhere private, but definitely not the farmhouse itself. Fortunately, she seemed to have walked in a large circle, because when she looked around her she realised she was less than a mile from the farm. As she made her way towards it she considered its various outbuildings, and finally decided on the tack room. Besides saddles and bridles, the horse brasses which the enormous Clydesdales had worn to shows in the past, and various brushes and combs, it contained a mirror, so that whoever was showing the horses might check their own appearance as well as their charges’.

In the yard, Glenys filled a bucket at the outside tap, and stole into the shed, closing the door softly behind her. She removed as much dirt from her person as she could, then found a brush and set to work on her pale hair until all the tangles had disappeared. When she had finished she looked searchingly at her reflection in the mirror. Not too bad, she congratulated herself. Now I’ll stroll casually in at the back door and tell them I wanted to be by myself for a bit . . .

But before she could carry out this admirable plan, someone in the stable next door spoke her name. Immediately, she was on the alert. Was that Sam’s voice? No, and neither was it Taid’s or Jimmy’s. A moment’s listening told her the answer: it was the hated Pete the Sheep, and he was talking to a sharp-faced, spiteful woman who went by the name of Phoebe Smith. She was almost as dirty as Pete himself, with thin, greasy black hair which hung to her shoulders and a whining, unpleasantly nasal voice. She lived in an ancient caravan in the woods and was much disliked and distrusted by all the locals, who swore that Phoebe Smith would thieve anything not nailed down and would lie like a flatfish if it was to her advantage to do so. But Glenys knew the other woman was frequently seen around with Pete, and began to listen without feeling that she was eavesdropping; the tack room was Weathercock property, after all.