The lassitude, perhaps exaggerated by the shock of Dick’s death, had spread to the villagers and many of the men had an easy time at this moment of high summer. The shearing was over and the sheep and their half-grown lambs had now returned to the hills with Ned and Jo. The hay harvest – or anyway the main crop – was all cut and dried, carried and stacked. The corn harvest was still a few weeks away, the corn standing silvery green in the field strips. The peas and beans all over the village gardens were still growing, nothing ready to pick. Cows, still in milk, grazed peacefully with the calves round them.

Most of the men were therefore waiting on nature. At this pause in the year they knew they should be inspecting fences, mending roofs, clearing ditches, adjusting ploughs, cutting logs against next winter, and a thousand other jobs for which there was little time in the busier seasons of harvest and little inclination in the bitter short days of winter. Those particularly prudent or energetic attended to these affairs even when not goaded by Rollo, but most relaxed, breathed the warm air easily, stretched out stiff feet on the clovery edges to paths, threw off stuffy hoods, looked at the sky with pleasure and sang slow songs as they sat under the oak tree on the Green spinning out a pot of ale in the long summer evenings, easing their over-burdened shoulders and gnarled hands. It was a behaviour which always made Peter grumble.

‘Person like me’s always working, no seasons in a carpenter’s life. Those people,’ a jerk of his head towards the murmuring group under the oak, ‘spend their time waiting for their crops to grow or ripen. They can be idle weeks at a time, but for me, it’s work, work, and always more work.’

And so it is for me, and all other women thought Marion.

Marion had got as far down the Common as the bridge and here she paused and let go of the wheelbarrow to ease her arms. The stream banks were clothed in deep fronds of plants overhanging the water and hiding the contours of the ground. Tall grass mingled with stitchwort and ragged robin; brambles and dog roses arched over the still pools of water which were now all that was left of the stream. A sudden desire to savour the cool water came over Marion. She put a stone against the wheelbarrow’s wheel to steady it and slid through the deep verdure on the bank, supporting herself with one hand on the understructure of the bridge. Her feet felt the cold water as they pushed the long grass under, silver bubbles adhering to the stems below the surface. Her feet sank into the soft mud and a line of cold crept up her legs. She hitched up her dress with her free hand and lay back into the deep grass. The stirred water released its muddy smell and this mixed with the scent of the peppermint leaves crushed under her legs. Apart from the grasshoppers it was very quiet. She would have hated to have been seen to be so self-indulgent by any of her neighbours, but no one came that way and the cool solitude was a sweet balm. Her hardened burning feet were cooled and softened.