Since Saturday she’d been thinking about her son. She missed him all the time but he was right at the front of her thoughts now. She tried to picture what he might look like but despite her best efforts she couldn’t. Maggie wondered what sort of person he might have become. Would he have done what that young lad, Tom, had done and come to a stranger’s aid? She didn’t know. She’d thought Tom had been brave and not typical of what society would have her believe of youths his age. The newspapers in the library told of impending doom on most fronts – environmentally, socially and economically. A society unsatisfied with its lot but not prepared to make the effort to fix it. Snowflakes, knife-wielding thugs and the government were all to blame depending on which paper you read.

Her memories of her son were like frayed newspaper cuttings from a long-forgotten scrapbook. It was the most unusual things that would trigger a train of thought that put him central in her mind. Sometimes she might go a while without thinking of him. Those days brought retrospective guilt but they were still the better days. It was selfish but it was the truth. Her memories of him inflicted deep wounds upon her peace of mind.

Maggie fed the ewes some sheep nuts and checked them over. Nancy continued to bleat for more, which gave Maggie an opportunity to give her a once-over. She was pretty sure she was pregnant but there were no tell-tale signs of imminent birth. They had a small lean-to for shelter if they needed it but generally they preferred to mooch around the field. They spent most of their day grazing. Not the most demanding of lives. She gave Barbara a fuss. Maggie had hand-reared Barbara two years ago but unlike Colin she was a gentle soul and enjoyed having her ears scratched. She’d check on them again later. Her little flock of lavenders in the next field were all doing fine. Their pretty coats would need shearing soon but for now they provided the perfect protection against the elements.

Maggie let the chickens out, fed them and collected the eggs. The Girls were a mixed bunch. Some were rescue birds, some she’d raised from chicks and five she’d got from the free noticeboard at the library because someone had been keeping them in the back garden of a rental property and were utterly surprised that the landlord was none too pleased when he’d found out. They were a motley bunch and Joan was the ringleader. She wasn’t the biggest hen but she was the quickest and she’d fought her way to be top of the pecking order.