‘Good.’ Jim releases his hand with a final warning squeeze. ‘Well, we’d better show you around, hadn’t we?’

They walk the farm with the dog at their heels, all one hundred and twenty acres of arable and pasture. Jack crosses fields of dairy cows, ruddy brown with white dapples on their rumps, their heads lifting in curiosity. He is walked through a field of sheep, the bleats of frolicking lambs drifting on the breeze. They lean over five-bar gates to study cropped hayfields backed by woods of beech and fir, and they walk along tramlines through barley, the hairs on the heads slicing their skin, before crossing a lane to enter acres of chest-high corn, waiting to be burnished gold by the sun, until at last they return via a farm track to the paddock behind the yard, where two Clydesdales graze peaceably as chickens strut between them, pecking at ground bearing the indented smiles of the horses’ hooves.

Back in the yard itself, Jim shows him the milking parlour, then – bypassing the stables and the tack room – the barn with its clay-tiled pitched roof and beside it the rickyard where already four hayricks stand, protected from the rain by their thatched conical hats. Finally, they arrive at the open-fronted shed where the implements – the plough share, the harrow, the potato riddle and seed drill – are neatly stored amongst yellow dandelions and tangled mayweed.

When they are done, Jim rubs his hands together and calls for a cup of tea. They walk back to the house, taking the steps up to the rear path, but before they reach the door, Jim spots Muriel digging potatoes from the vegetable patch before them. Clapping Jack on the back, he tells him to go on in, while he has a quick word with his housekeeper.

Jack feels like an intruder as he lets himself into the kitchen, despite the fact he has been given licence to do so. The room remains dim. The late-morning sun strikes the front of the house rather than the back, and the small window above the sink does not permit sufficient light to brighten the large low-ceilinged room, so the corners play host to shadows.

He leaves the door ajar for Jim and hovers just inside, glancing around him, the ticking of the wall clock the only sound. He rubs his chin, wondering at the unexpected turn of events, and wondering further whether this deviation from his plan is prudent. His intention had been to become a nondescript labourer in some large town – anonymous, insignificant. He is aware he will stand out here, on a farm on the outskirts of a village where gossip is sure to be abundant.