Away in the village she heard a sudden hysteria of dogs barking. A common enough noise, it seemed to go on for longer than usual, and this irritated her. She knew she would need water before the day was out, so she picked up a bucket, and Alice in the other arm, and walked down the path to the stream.

The water-fetching place was below Molly’s garden. The stream here had an extra deep pool and an old willow stump grew aslant it. Peter had built out the bank with a few large stones and had made a small pulley-wheel spinning on an oak dowel plugged into the top of the willow stump. A rope, running over the wheel, was attached to the handle of a bucket. Kneeling on the stones, you could tip the bucket in the water till it filled and sank, then, rising, you would pull on the rope till the bucket could be eased on to the stones. You could then fill your own bucket from it. Marion had fetched water thus daily for years, except when the stream was frozen. It was almost impossible not to get your feet wet when doing so.

It was just as she reached the willow stump that she heard a call from across the stream, and on the bank opposite saw one of the Fletcher boys who worked with Peter.

‘Hoi,’ he called. ‘Message from Peter. He says Chris Foxcap’s come and will you bring over the bag of bent nails hanging under the shelf under the corn pot. There’s thirty-seven nails in it.’

She called after him but he was already scampering away. This news changed Marion’s plan for the day. Water fetching could wait. At the top of the path she met Molly.

‘Chris Foxcap’s come,’ Marion said.

‘Thought so,’ said Molly, always wise after information. ‘Said so to myself when I heard the dogs. That’s no ordinary dog-fight – those dogs sounded wild – ’

Marion broke in with, ‘I’ve got to take stuff to Peter at once,’ and picking up Alice again she got back to her cottage.

The leather bag, heavy with bent nails, extracted from rotting or burnt beams and carefully preserved, was hanging exactly where Peter had said. She sat down, tipped the nails on to her lap and counted them. There were thirty-seven. It was like Peter to know and to be so exact. She put them back into the leather bag. Alice interrupted her, ‘Ugh-Ugh’.

‘Go out,’ said Marion. ‘Feet apart. Hold up your dress. Squat down.’ Alice obeyed as she was at an age when a precise routine appealed.

Marion was loathe to waste Chris Foxcap’s visit by having nothing to mend, so she pulled down from a hook under the hen’s shelf the leaky old iron pot in which she had taken the log to the oven yesterday. It had a crack in the base which, though almost invisible, allowed liquid to seep out, thereby not only wasting the soup but risking putting out the fire as well.