At the orchard he’d been sent to he met three middleaged men who took him through the mizzle to the heart of their apple groves. There, with friendly patience, they revealed to him their wondrous innovation: a spray. A combination of insecticide and fungicide, stronger and more durable than any other in existence, able to protect all apple varieties from every kind of pestilence. They showed him how to dilute it, how to decant it into the mist-spraying device, how to attach that device to a tractor, how to aim the machine at the top of the trees, which allowed the death-cloud to fall and coat every part of the foliage and fruit. Through the groves they rolled, mist rising and falling in their wake.

Ned had seen sprays before. Every orchardist he’d ever known had mixed copper sulphate in their sheds, doused it across their crop. But these West Anglians swore to him that this chemical’s effectiveness was unparalleled. They showed him their evidence: swollen, healthy crops, and ledgers spitting rude profits.

‘Just make sure the wife has the washing in before you start spraying,’ they told him. ‘It can make a horrible mess on your clothes.’

They gave him the details of the tiny collective that manufactured it, the address from which it could be ordered. Told him what to say, who to talk to. Ned thanked them. He gave them specimens and cuttings from his own orchard, which he had brought as gifts. He ate dinner in one of their houses, asked the right questions, spoke a little about what it was like to grow fruit in the southern hemisphere. Afterwards, wrecked by travel, he fell asleep on a cot one of their wives had made up for him in a small study.

In the morning he thanked them again over a hot breakfast, and left. But once he was off the property, he pulled over. He had no destination. The orchardists back home hadn’t known how long it would take him to learn and master the new technology, so his flight was still days away. He pulled out the map the rental company had given him. Dragged his eyes across Britain’s pale shape. Didn’t want to go to any of the cities any more than he wanted to visit the cities of the antipodes, where crowds pressed him, the volume of life felt heavy, and not being able to see the horizon meant he could never settle. He kept looking. Didn’t see the point in going to a beach. Thought of going to see the Roman ruins, the old wall they’d stapled across the island. Felt attracted to the age of it, the massive stretch of time separating his own life from theirs. While searching for Hadrian’s name, he saw the Lake District. Studied the map’s key. Saw that he wasn’t far away.