So this was how Peter had lived ever since he had married Marion, and lucky he was to have got the miller’s only daughter, everyone had said. The arrangement had worked. They had had their annual supply of corn, perhaps more regularly than if they had had to produce it themselves, and they had all the usual rights of pasture on the Common and share of the hay loads every summer, and Peter had worked, and had been respected, as a skilled and reliable carpenter in the workshop near the Hall. Everyone could see him at work there daily and knew he was no idler and no botcher.

Over recent years Marion had looked at Peterkin’s limping walk and at his twisted hand and had realized that the rights of the strips could never revert to him. Nolly’s early death and Alice being a girl had been other reasons for abandoning any idea of the family being more than servants at the Hall. Finding Peter’s sight suddenly so much improved made her wonder for a moment if he could not return to the more respected position of a land-worker, having his own rights, but the vision soon faded. He was now too old ever to be any other than the village carpenter, and, if he could see further and clearer, so much to the good. She might have another son, who might grow up straight and strong – but again she might not. And Peterkin? Poor lopsided Peterkin, with his floppy lopsided basket – what sort of future would there be for him?

It was sad how early dusk came. Marion had been round to the midden and paused on her way back to look at the sky, for weather foretelling was of importance to all. Now, over the Common and the village it was all a clear blue-grey, but westwards, down the valley, it was a clean aquamarine colour with bands of woolly grey clouds lying across it. The air was very still, raw and damp. The trees, now bare twigs, that rose up the hill behind the Plowrights’ cottage, were sharp black against the pale sky, and to Marion’s surprise, low down between the black branches the moon was rising, a huge warm orange disc.

Moon’s very big tonight, she thought, but could not remember what this was supposed to presage.

After the knifey air how welcome was the little glowing fire in the cottage and the hot chicken soup simmering in the iron pot.

It was when they were in bed that evening that Peter reverted to the subject of Peterkin’s disabilities. Marion knew that when Peter reverted to subjects of conversation it was a sure sign that he had been worrying and turning over the matter in his mind. They spoke in whispers for their heads were close and they did not want to waken Alice or be overheard by Peterkin if he were awake.

‘You know, Marry,’ Peter whispered, ‘seeing Peterkin with the withies – he really can’t manage it, and apart from his hand, his left arm is weak from never using the hand. I really don’t think he’ll ever be able to hold a plough.’