Tom at once pulled the ropes which closed them, and so darkened the Hall even more. Only the wide glow and occasional flicker from the fire lit the room. The villagers knew this was the signal to depart, to leave the warm shelter for their own cold damp cottages.

‘Must get home before dark’, ‘Still got my cow to milk’, ‘Don’t like the night air on my chest’, ‘You’re lucky to have a cow in milk’ – with such remarks they collected their children, surreptitiously pocketed bits of bread, rewrapped their cloaks round them, pulled up their hoods and shuffled out into the misty pinkish dusk of a March evening.

Marion and Peter were leaving together, following Dick and Hilda, who carried the younger of their little girls. At the Hall door Tom waylaid them.

‘Oh Peter, while I think of it, I need a new spigot for the small barrel in the brew house. The one in it is rotten and it dribbles.’

‘But I’m busy,’ said Peter. ‘I’ve got who knows how many jobs for Rollo. A spigot’s a fiddly job – you needn’t think making a small thing takes a small bit of time … but all right, I’ll see. Remind me next week. Ash is best for that job.’

‘Thanks. Good night, all,’ and Tom shut himself behind the Hall door and Peter joined the others on the bridge. Meanwhile Dick Shepherd had paused on the path, received a bag of food from Hilda, wrapped her cloak around her and the sleeping child, embraced both, and the other child standing by Hilda, and had gone off across the Green. As he went Marion saw a fuzz of orange hair catch the last of the light, his head and body a dark silhouette against it.

‘Dick gone off?’ asked Peter.

‘Up to the pastures,’ said Hilda. ‘He can’t leave the ewes and the new lambs at this time of year. He left Ned up there with them and just came down for Mass and food himself. Hold the rail, Meg. No jumping now.’

Their neighbour, Molly, came up behind them.

‘Glad of your company on the way home,’ she said. ‘Woops – the bridge is slippery, frost’s come down early this evening. Your little one asleep, Marion?’

It was quickly becoming dark. They stumped off in single file along the path across the Common to the little collection of cottages always referred to as ‘Down the Common’. They parted with Molly at her garden gate.

‘You’re lucky,’ Marion said to her. ‘Your mother and aunt’ll have the fire going for you. We’ll be lucky if there’s any fire at home.’

‘You send Peterkin round for a bit of hot embers if you need ’em. You too, Hilda.’

More good nights followed. They parted from Hilda at her cottage and watched her stoop as she went in through the door with Meg following her.

At the cottage Peter at once felt under the shelf for the bellows and puffed away till a red glow appeared. Peterkin emerged from the gloom and crouched down beside it. Marion sank down on the curved log and Alice immediately woke up.