In contrast the Hunter family moved into view, each wrapped up in a thick cloak. They came in red-faced, smiling, blowing, stamping their frozen feet, greeting Sir Hugh and Dame Margaret, then Peter and Marion with a gesture and their three broad-faced adolescent children stood with hoods pushed back and the firelight shining on their faces. Paulo, their youngest, having put away Peter’s tools, sneaked up to them and warmed himself partly under his mother’s cloak. He was still uneasy at having shown himself to Peter Carpenter as being bad at counting. They did not talk, they were gasping with the effort of getting there through the bitter air, and bemused and silenced by the strangeness of warmth and crowds and the high darkness in the beams over their heads.

Then a group from Rockwell arrived: Old Wat, his enormous beard, black and grizzled, flowing down on his chest as he pulled off his hood; Nancy, his wife, who was Molly’s sister, and who sought her out and they disappeared into some dark corner to chat; Stephen, whom Marion persistently hoped would marry Ellen, and several other teenage children. The other Rockwell family joined them: Edward, his wife, Red Mary, their son Tim, with eyes like speedwells even in the gloom, and who helped at Mass every Sunday, and several more children, and with them, more bent and gaunt and haggard than ever, Old Lambert. The Rockwells, who had had by far the longest walk to the Hall, down through the fields, still appeared to be the most animated, and their talk and laughter enlivened the rest of the party. Old Lambert, on the arm of a nephew, was eased round the Hall to where his son Loppy was standing, leaning back against the wall, his head back, a faint smile on his long bristly face and a red fire-glow on his lumpy nose. Old Lambert greeted him with pats on the shoulder, but Loppy showed no recognition and continued to smile vaguely.

Sir Hugh, in a rare positive mood, was busying himself and giving orders. This was his social manner, put on for the occasion.

‘No, all dogs out, I said so before. No dogs in the Hall tonight. Tie him up to the oak tree – they’ll all keep themselves warm there, well – let them fight out there. You should have left them at home. I’ve enough trouble with my own family dogs. Ah, Wat – and Nancy! God’s Christmas blessing – how are matters up at Rockwell? Water frozen? You – Stephen – you’ll have to mind your head on the beams if you go on at this rate – mind your head on the hams, at any rate. It’s often said a tall man’s head smells of bacon, still, there’s worse things – little girls well? Father John, you know where your place is at the high table. Magda is there I think. Sarah, come and warm yourself – Dobbin, make room. How’s the meat getting on? Where’s Dame Margaret? Oh in the bread shed still. Magda, keep that dog of yours quiet… ’ and so on and on, in an unusually expansive mood as if all anxieties were suddenly lifted.