Oh-Three-Seven Smith made his way down the lane and along the main road past the village with the relaxed, unhurried gait of the countryman who saves his energy for the work to come.

He had been enjoying himself these last three weeks. It had been a race, down on Hodge’s Farm, to get the last crops sown by the beginning of May, to get the barley in and drill the swedes and mangolds, to broadcast the grass and clover seeds for next year’s hay and get it harrowed in.

They would be just about finishing the job off tonight; it gave him a pleasant feeling inside to think of a job like that accomplished. After that the evenings would be more leisurely; there would be a lull, during which tractors and equipment would get fresh coats of paint to protect them from the weather, the beams of the barns would be creosoted again, the mangolds ground for the bullocks and fresh stocks laid in of fertiliser and cattle feed.

And there would be time for talks with Mister Hodge. What a man that Mister Hodge was! Private Smith had never known a farmer like him; young, and full of science – he had been to one of those agricultural colleges – and always ready to teach. He could tell you all about the soil, chemistry, not the old stuff that the old men mumbled about in the corner chair down the pub, and all about every disease that every animal in the farmyard might ever get, and how to feed them, and how to look after the poultry, and all about drainage – he would bend over a map and mark out lines on it just like an officer, and in a few weeks that field would be as dry and firm as you could want.

‘Evenin’, Mister Hodge.’ He was taken by surprise. He had not expected to see Hodge coming down the road towards him, at this time of evening, when the sky was still pearly with sunlight. And Charlie Benbow with him, too.

‘Hello, Tom. It’s saved you a walk, meeting us. We’ve finished up in Ten Acre; we’re just going down to the Ploughman to celebrate. You’ll come, won’t you?’