“He shouldn’t go running about the island by himself. Look what happened to Mary Stennet. It’s dangerous, especially with the men firing like wild things at anything that moves.”

“You should have gone to collect him,” Annie said.

“I know, but he does hate it. He says that only the babies are collected by their mothers. And it’s only up the road.”

“Just the same. I think you should collect him.”

“I will. Every day. If only he’s safe.”

Kenneth had gone out in the end to look for him, and had found him squatting in the tumbledown croft, writing on the dirt floor, apparently oblivious to time.

“What are you doing?” Kenneth asked.

“I was making a spell.”

Maggie hated it when Alec was so pleased with himself. He came in at last, after the boys were in bed, stinking of drink and boasting of what a brilliant shot he was.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. She was furious.

“I’ve been having a few drinks,” he said, “to celebrate.”

“Your father should know better than to get you in this state. There’ll be time to celebrate when you’ve cut the silage. What have you got to celebrate?”

Alec sat down carefully.

“He’s talking,” he said, “about retiring.”

George Palmer-Jones went to bed early. Jonathan Drysdale had come back from his walk in a peculiar, feverish state and had talked all evening about whooper swans. He had been up to Silver Water, and the whooper swans were there. This year he was determined to ring them. They would do it soon, and George must help him. George found the frightened, relentless conversation sad and exhausting and went to bed to escape it. At first he did not sleep, and when the generator went off he was still awake, making plans for the next day.

He must eventually have slept, because the howls of the dog pierced his dreams, and when he woke, he thought he must still be dreaming. It was a horrible chilling noise and it sounded very close to the house. He could not believe that Jonathan was sleeping through it. It continued, high-pitched and disturbing. He tried to go back to sleep, but it was impossible. He thought that perhaps the dog had been hit by a stray shot, and finally he got up and dressed and went outside. There was a very thin moon but he needed a torch to see. The noise came from the low, boggy area of the Loons. He splashed across the drainage ditches and swore as the water trickled into his Wellingtons. The whole thing was foolish. He should have stayed in bed.