Molly must have got to the village, for that evening men from the village had arrived with a hurdle and carried Marge’s body off to the graveyard. Father John had given the briefest service he could in the raw air, his voice hoarse as he did so, and his nose dripping. Molly had described it all in detail to Marion.

Peter had got home by then, rather ill-tempered by his intended work timetable being upset, but he had brought in a lot more heavy logs. He had prodded the roof-hatch with a pole and it could now be propped open or could fall shut, at will. Marion could see, amid the sooty rafters, that Peter’s action had broken one of its leather hinges, but he could not see this in the murky interior and she forebore to mention it. It served well enough for the time being. He was sympathetic over her chilblained feet, gently rubbed on the goose grease and wrapped them up in bits of cloth, but even his kindly touch was agony. She never understood why he, exposed as he often was, never had chilblains. Neither did Peterkin, even on his twisted foot.

Not only was she enduring the pain in her feet at every step she took, she often felt rather faint. She knew she was not having enough to eat. She had so often experienced this shaking faintness mixed with a darkening of vision during the hungry months of winter. She had kept the feeling at bay by scraping out some honey from a tub Betsy had sent her, but the tub was scraped clean by now, and little chance of a journey to the Mill to beg for more. She daily watched the stores of corn and peas and cheese, and speculated on how long it would be before any replacements could be there. She had looked at Peter and at her two unconcerned children, and ate less herself. It had always been thus in winter.

In the sea of amorphous days that followed the partial thaw, no new snow fell, but the lumps that remained by the fence and in the ditches by the common melted only on the surface by day and refroze every night into hard networks of ice. Peter daily stumped and slithered his way to his workshop in the village, and dragged himself home before dusk. He always arrived with the cloths that were bound to his legs soaked up to his knees and the edges of his tunic and cloak heavy with half-melted snow. It was impossible to dry clothes.

He had arrived with a very stout ash stake over his shoulder. One end had been sharpened and charred to render it more waterproof. He propped it up under the eaves and told Marion it was for mending the Plowrights’ door.

‘Jack asked me, days ago, about Epiphany,’ he had muttered. ‘Said their doorpost was rotten and the soffit was adrift, hanging – thought it’d come down on his brats. He was right, it was all crumbling at the bottom. ’Spect his brats had been pissing against it for years – and the dogs – so I’ll put this new one in on Sunday after Mass. He’ll have to help me then.’