Stephen just nodded. He wasn’t sure what to make of Nick. He wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He’d thought, being a farmer, Nick’d be a ruddy type in overalls, with a pick-up truck. Instead he was a little guy, with light denim jeans half-tucked into loose ankle boots, a darker denim shirt which strained a little over the middle and a scuffed leather waistcoat which looked to be a couple of sizes too small. He had pale loose curls at his collar and small, intensely blue eyes. He was like the kind of man who’d play an accordion in a pub, while no one listened. His car stank of acrid smoke, the source of which Stephen soon discovered to be the Disque Bleu cigarettes Nick smoked. The car ashtray was over-spilling. As soon as they drove off from the station Nick had offered him a smoke from the soft white pack.

Stephen didn’t really know anything much about these people, beyond the fact that they were relatives. His mum was the one who was big on family history. Apparently they shared an ancestor, his great-great-grandfather on his dad’s side. It was a fairly big deal, because he’d been a military hero: his name was in books and stuff. He’d won a medal in the Crimea. It wasn’t Nick Clarke who was some sort of distant cousin, but Mrs Clarke. His mum had traced the Clarkes a while back, when she’d been updating the Nolan family tree. She’d written to Mrs Clarke a couple of times and had quite friendly replies about the ancestral connection. He wondered if there’d be any family resemblance.

When he’d decided to come to England, Stephen’s mother had written to everyone she could think of – a handful of people – and the Clarkes had said he was welcome to come for a couple of months, if he’d lend a hand with the farm. That was pretty nice of them, it was agreed. They must be decent individuals.

His parents hadn’t at first been too happy about the idea of him taking time out to go to England. He’d already completed a year at college, doing graphic design. It would’ve made sense to see it through before chasing off around the planet. And, let’s face it, the course wasn’t exactly hard labour. All he seemed to have to do was tracing, measuring, cutting out and drawing. One along from finger painting. Who needed a break from that? It was like wanting to take time off from play-school, basically.