I talked as the carter drove. I broke off when we went into inns, and we climbed down from the back and bought the man an ale. He took up another passenger one time, a pretty country girl who sat in the front with him and giggled at the things he said. We sat still and quiet during that time, around noon. But we did not court as they were courting. Will did not kiss me, and I did not box his ears and blush. I rested my head on his shoulder and I felt the tears roll down my cheeks for the two little children in the dirty wagon, and even for Zima’s little babby we had left behind.

When the girl had gone, climbing down at her home, a darkshuttered cottage, leaving with a wave, Will had said softly, ‘You asleep?’ and I had said ‘No.’

‘Tell me then,’ he said. ‘After that first season with Gower, where he took you for winter quarters, tell me about that.’

I thought of the cottage at Warminster, of Mrs Greaves and the skirt which I stained so badly, falling from Sea, that I never had to wear it again. I told him about Dandy and her pink stomacher top and her flying cape, and of David who trained us so kindly and so well.

Then I buried my face in his jacket and told him about the owl which flew into the ring, and about David warning us about the colour green. And how I had forgotten.

I wept then, and Will petted me as if I were a little well-loved child, and wiped my face with his own cotton handkerchief, and made me blow my nose and take a gulp of ale. He took some bread rolls and some cheese from his pocket and we ate them as the sky was growing darker again with the quick cold twilight of winter.

‘And then…’ he prompted, as I finished eating.

I sprawled back against the softness of the straw and turned my face to the sky where the pale stars were starting to show. The evening star hung like a jewel above the dark latticework of the twigs of the passing woods.