‘Down by the river in the sand in the sun

Lived an old mother rabbit and her little rabbit one.

“Hop,” said the mother. “We hop,” said the one.

So they hopped and were glad in the sand in the sun.’

‘More,’ said Alice, so Marion continued, her mind elsewhere.

‘Down by the river in the sand in the sun

Lived an old mother duck and her little duckling one.

“Hop,” said the moth – ’

‘Thwim,’ said Alice.

“Swim,” said the mother. “We swim,” said the one.

So they swam and were glad in the sand in the sun.’

It should be water, not sand, thought Marion for the first time after many hundred repetitions of the verses – can’t swim in sand. But Alice did not question it, she was already asleep. Marion sat on beside her, still and quiet.

Peter came up from the garden, dragging the spade.

‘Remember that, Marion?’ he said, showing her a little carved wooden cow. She picked it up from his earthy palm and sad recollections flooded in. ‘I found it digging in the muck heap,’ he said. ‘Remember? I carved it for Nolly one Sunday evening. A bit of soft willow it was, it’s a wonder it’s lasted …’ They looked at the little cow, and then straight into each other’s eyes and Peter’s voice faded away.

‘Funny,’ he went on, after a pause, ‘I was just thinking of Nolly before I picked it up.’

Marion felt an unexpected bond with Peter. ‘Do you often think of him?’ she asked, twisting the muddy toy in her fingers.

‘Now and then,’ he said. ‘Can’t help it. Do you?’

‘Not more than once or twice a day,’ she said, wondering if he realized the unusual intimacy that her words revealed.

He looked into her eyes again. ‘Yes, Marry,’ he said slowly. ‘Our Nolly, the best of all children,’ and then even more unusually he put his arms round her and kissed her face. She looked up at him and saw his kindly eyes and felt she was fortunate among women. Peter straightened his back and hitched the spade up in his hand as if preparing to continue digging.

‘Can’t you have a bit of a rest?’ Marion asked him. ‘You’ve been working all day since dawn, hours and hours on end.’

‘I know I have, but it’s summer. I must do what I can in the light,’ and he stumped off down the garden again and Marion stood leaning against the doorpost watching him.

That was what midsummer was – long, long hours of work. Whether your work was sitting spinning or sawing logs, the hours of daylight must not be wasted. These long days had to be worked when food was often short, when sacks of last year’s corn were counted, when the flour remaining in the chests was prudently estimated, when rarely were there any peas or beans left from last year and the new crops were not ripe for picking and cabbages were still little stripling plants. It was traditional to say that midsummer was the best time of year but Marion associated it with exhaustion. Autumn, when shorter days sent everyone home to their cottages at sunset, and when the recent harvest, visible in bags of provender and meat sides smoking above the fire, gave a surety of future sustenance, was surely a richer time. Then anxiety could give way before a sense of achievement.