The hay harvest was in and there would be a few weeks’ respite before a similar process would begin again with the corn harvest.

Her litter of piglets, as Esther thought of them, had been weaned at eight weeks old and sent to market. One morning after feeding Curly and the young gilt, she went in search of Sam.

‘Mester?’

His answer was a sniff.

‘I reckon Curly is ready for the boar.’

‘Eh?’ He looked up, startled. ‘’Ow does a wench like you know about such things?’

Esther laughed. ‘’Tis nature, ain’t it?’

Sam sniffed again, dropped his hedge knife and walked back with her to the sty to take a look for himself.

Esther giggled as she walked along beside him, and added, ‘The chap who used to bring the boar to me aunt’s always used to ask, “Is the sow ready, is she flushed – just like a strawberry – at the back?” ’

Sam stopped and looked at her. Then a slow smile spread across his shrunken mouth and a chuckle from somewhere deep within forced its way out. ‘Eh, lass,’ he shook his head. ‘You’ll be the death o’ me.’

Esther grinned back at him.

Sam reached the sty, opened the door and went inside, whilst Esther watched from the doorway. He stood behind the pig and leant his hands on her haunches. The sow blinked but did not move away. ‘Aye, lass, I reckon you’re right.’ Sam stood a moment looking down at the huge sow with her wiry, curling coat. ‘Well, old girl,’ he said as if to the pig, but at his next words Esther knew he intended her to hear. ‘I reckon this wench here has saved your bacon. If ya’d killed yar litter again this year, you were fer me knife come autumn.’

Sam looked directly up at Esther and laughed wheezily again. ‘Go up to Tom Willoughby’s and ask him to bring his boar as soon as he can. Tell him she’s as flushed as a strawberry. He’ll like that, will Tom.’

Tom Willoughby did like it. He leant back and roared with laughter, his great belly wobbling, the grey whiskers of his long sideburns quivering, his fat cheeks growing redder by the second. He was a huge man, tall and broad and obviously jovial. ‘So it’s true what I’ve heard about you, lass?’

‘That depends on what ya’ve heard, mester.’ She stood before him, smiling at his infectious laughter.

He drew a large red and white spotted kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Will Benson told us that Sam had got a rare lass working for him now. A rare lass, ’ee said. I reckon ’ee’s right.’

Esther’s smile broadened but she made no comment. She expected that every farm for miles around on Will’s route would know she had come to live and work at Brumbys’ Farm.