‘It’s still there,’ Magda’s voice called out.

So clearly had the past held the old man’s mind, that this call to the present disconnected his thoughts.

‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled irritably, ‘she was a fine woman, your mother, sir, and – no, no, she was your grandmother, sir, your grandmother. How time flies… ’ The old man’s voice trailed off. He was exhausted and Simon took his arm and lowered him into his chair.

‘He never said how they got seed – corn – wheat, that is, for the next year’s sowing,’ came another voice from the dark.

The candles were burning low, some of them at their last flicker in the wooden blocks, and the Hall was darkening. The villagers started reluctantly to gather up their cloaks again. Roger, at a signal from Simon, brought the wheelbarrow close to his grandfather’s chair and they helped him into it, wrapped his cloak round him closely and pulled his sheepskin hood over his head, tucking his greasy beard in. His mind was now wholly on getting home, and he barely glanced at Marion as the wheelbarrow was turned round and Roger pushed it out of the door into the icy night. Marion watched him go and wondered if she would ever see him alive again.

Tom had put some small logs on the fire and they blazed up, lighting the Hall far more than the candles had, and by this orange flickering, farewells were said. Marion picked up heavily sleeping Alice, Peter wrapped and tied her cloak round both of them, called to Peterkin and the family departed.

They met Molly with her pot of stewed liver and pocket of honey-bread at the bridge. The air was misty, the moon glimmering diffused through the mist, and this faint light made the path and the bridge just discernible. Two figures, no doubt Lisa and Martin, were already across the bridge and down on the Common path.

‘It’s very slippy,’ said Molly, venturing a foot on the glistening plank. ‘Hold the rail.’

Peterkin followed her.

‘O-ooh, it’s ever so slidy,’ he said, and attempted to do so.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ commanded Peter. ‘Hold the rail, don’t make it worse for us behind. Go steady, Marion. Wait, I’ll give you a hand down the steps.’

The frost was as sharp as ever, the grass crunched under their feet, and the ice over the cows’ footprints tinkled as they broke it. As they walked Marion could feel her wet skirt stiffening as it froze, and at each step it scrunched a little. They said goodnight to Molly at her gate, called similar greetings to Lisa and Martin, fumbling at their cottage door. Whether the Plowrights were already home they knew not, all was silent at their house.

It was pitch-dark in the cottage. Marion pushed open the upper half of the door and the faint reflected moonlight showed her the familiar dark shapes of log, shelf, cradle and fireplace.

‘Come and pee, boy, before we go in,’ said Peter, and Marion could hear the hissing before they followed her inside.