Jack’s blood roars in his ears. ‘Work,’ he manages.

‘We’re making a farmer of him,’ Jim laughs.

‘So, I see.’ The policeman’s smile fails to reach his eyes. ‘How many you done?’ He advances but refrains from getting too close – he does not want his uniform splashed with filthy water. He stretches his neck to look in the field beyond, carrying out a rough head count of the soaked sheep, wet and pathetic in the brightening sun as they crop the grass, sodden tails flicking.

‘Twenty-five I reckon, another forty to go. Muriel’s inside, she’ll make you a cup of tea if you ask,’ Jim calls.

‘I have my duty to fulfil here, Jim. I need to keep my eye on you.’

‘Don’t you trust me?’

‘I don’t trust anyone, Jim.’

Jack’s skin prickles as if the mites have abandoned the manhandled sheep and are crawling up his bare arms, worming into his flesh to twitch and feast and irritate.

‘In this job, you learn that pretty damn quick. Always keep an eye out. You never know what – or who – is going to turn up unexpectedly.’

‘You’re shaking,’ Gwen murmurs as she passes him the next ewe.

Jack looks down at his hands with an air of bewildered detachment. They are indeed trembling, like the legs of a newborn lamb. He buries his fingers into the sheep’s water-matted coat. ‘The water’s freezing.’ Seeing her suspicion, he looks away.

The policeman makes no attempt to conceal the yawn that prises open his mouth. He ambles over to one of the fence posts supporting the corrugated iron sheets walling the run and rests against it. He fishes out a packet of cigarettes.

‘Smoke?’ He offers the box to Jack then grins. His front teeth overlap. ‘You’ve got your hands full, I suppose.’ He laughs at his own joke, a throaty cackle that seems strangely feminine. Jack swallows his contempt.

‘Aye, something like that.’

‘Well, my Iris will be delighted to hear there’s a fellow northerner around. I’ll have to get the two of you introduced.’ He grins again at Jack, though with his uneven, tobacco-stained teeth, it seems more like a leer. ‘She’d love to have a natter with someone from home.’

Jack does not respond, he merely pushes the next sheep below the churning water, wishing the policeman would go. He has no desire to meet his wife. He wants nothing to do with home.

Gwen is tacking up Arthur when Jack returns to the yard that evening, having safely restored the milking herd to pasture.

‘Riding out?’ he says as she throws the saddle over the stallion’s back.