Sam Brumby lived to know that another harvest had been gathered but he had not been well enough to take any active part in the work. Just once, when she was returning from the fields, she saw that he had dragged himself to the kitchen window to watch the final wagon load brought home, but this year it was Esther who had to put the last sheaf on top of the stack. As she did so she turned to see Sam watching her from the window and saw him give her a little nod before he turned and went back to his place by the range.

The following morning when Esther came in from the milking, she found Sam seated in his chair. He was leaning forward, his breathing a rasping, tearing sound.

‘Why didn’t you wait till I could help you down the stairs?’ she said hurrying towards him.

He was seized by a spasm of coughing and waved his hand feebly at her. Helplessly she had to stand and watch as the coughing racked his thin frame. He sat hunched in the chair, growing weaker with every passing day.

‘Mester . . .’ she began again, but he lifted his hand as if to silence her.

‘Lass, get Mester Thompson . . .’ He could hardly get the words out, and then only in a wheezing whisper.

Esther bent closer. ‘Who’s Mr Thompson?’

‘I – I want to see him.’ He lay back in the chair and closed his eyes. The effort of dressing, coming downstairs and speaking even those few words had exhausted him.

Esther bit her lip. She must find this man, but she didn’t know who he was. At that moment she heard the familiar whistle heralding the arrival of Will Benson’s carriers cart in the yard and she flew out of the house and towards him, her skirt held high, her curls flying. All formality forgotten in her agitation, she called the carrier the name by which she always thought of him in her own mind.

‘Will, Will – oh, thank goodness you’ve come . . .’

‘Steady, lass, steady. What’s wrong? Is it Sam?’

She nodded. ‘He’s much worse, Will. And he’s asking for a Mester Thompson. I don’t know who he is, do you?’

Will Benson nodded. His face was grim. ‘He’s the lawyer in town.’

They stared at each other.

‘Why should he – want a lawyer?’ Esther asked innocently.

‘Dun’t you know, lass?’

Esther could only shake her head for suddenly there was a funny lump in her throat and she could not trust herself to speak.

‘I reckon he wants to make a will, lass.’

‘A will? But folks like him dun’t make wills . . .’

The carter nodded his head. ‘They do if they think they haven’t long to go, lass.’

Esther groaned. ‘Oh no,’ she whispered. ‘You reckon he – he knows?’

Will nodded. ‘Aye, lass, he knows. He knows all right.’