‘You’ll never make it across the yard on that foot,’ she says, continuing towards the back door. ‘Nor should you try.’

The dog jumps around them as they step outside, excited by the scent of fresh linen and the prospect of fresh blood. Muriel snaps at him to settle down, cussing him under her breath. Juggling his load, Jack frees a hand to ruffle the fur on the dog’s head. In the woods behind the farm, a cuckoo hails itself.

Muriel wastes no time in striding up the yard to the stable block. She is muttering something, but Jack is unable to determine her words – it crosses his mind that this might be for the best. The dog noses the air as it detects a scent more enticing than their own, and immediately hares off towards the implement shed, its tail down, its head low to the ground as it begins ferreting through the weeds, weaving between the equipment.

The horse inside the stable block senses their approach and snickers as they reach the red-painted doors now weathered to lobster pink and flaking like sunburnt skin.

They cross the cobbles to the door on the left, the latch clacking under Muriel’s hand. In spite of the warmth outside, the small room is cool to the point of chilly and Jack is relieved that there is indeed a little cast-iron stove tucked into the far corner, its black flue running up the wall and disappearing through the raftered roof above. The room smells of leather, saddle oil, and yeasty horse nuts. The back wall is studded with wooden prongs that support an array of saddles and bridles, while below sit stacked pails and sacks of oats, their rolled tops weighted down with large stones. Strands of straw sink between the cobbles, and the only window is draped with a filigree of cobwebs, which scoop across its corners like white silk, while its crumbling wooden sill is littered with the desiccated corpses of bluebottles. Beneath the window is an upturned apple crate, clearly intended to serve as a side table to the wooden camp bed shoved against the outside wall.

‘You can unroll the mattress onto that,’ Muriel says, her manner curt as her eyes roam the room, though she makes no comment on its condition or suitability.

Wordlessly, Jack does as he is bid, releasing the coiled mattress from its binds. He attempts to flatten it against the slatted frame but, despite his best efforts, its ends curl like stale bread.

While he battles with the mattress, Muriel brushes the dust from an old Bentwood chair that stands at the side of the room. She sets the bedlinen upon it and selects a sheet. Elbowing Jack aside, she shakes it free from its crisp folds and flutters it over the mattress, moving briskly around the frame to tuck it in at each corner with two sharp swipes of her flattened hand.