‘Hardy’s Wessex. It’s just like here in the winter—very rainy. But lush and green in spring. You’d like to live on a farm?’

‘My family used to have an apple orchard.’

‘That must have been lovely. I’ve never lived on the land, but I’ve always thought it must be a great way of life. The rhythm of seasons and weather.’

Miki nodded. ‘Father used to say everything had its time. Pruning and grafting in winter. Training and spraying in spring and summer. Harvest in autumn.’

‘Did you have sheep like Gabriel Oakes?’

‘We had some for a while, to graze in the orchard. But dogs got them and Mother was upset.’

‘As you would be. Any poddy lambs?’

‘Only one. I raised her on cow’s milk.’ Miki remembered the little white lamb in the kitchen, snuggled in a box near the stove. She’d named it Mary and fed it from the same bottle her mother had used when Miki was a baby. There had been something satisfying in that: the cycle of life, the versatility of reusing things instead of throwing them away. Her family had been good at that. They had to be creative with so little money.

‘You could relate to Bathsheba’s life on the farm, then?’ Geraldine said.

Miki smiled. ‘Not exactly. Bathsheba was rich, and we definitely weren’t.’

‘It’s hard for farmers, isn’t it?’ Geraldine picked up the book and flicked through it. ‘Any bits you didn’t like?’

‘Yes, the fire in the barn … I lost my parents in a house fire.’ This was the first time Miki had told anyone about her family, and she felt a tide of emotion rising under her skin. She looked away. She didn’t want condolences; they wouldn’t help.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Geraldine said.

Miki didn’t trust herself to look up.

‘Bathsheba lost her parents too. Like you.’

‘It wasn’t real.’ Miki was surprised by the harshness of her own voice. ‘Far from the Madding Crowd is a story. Thomas Hardy made it up. Bathsheba isn’t a real person. It’s not the same.’

‘I know,’ Geraldine said slowly, as if feeling for words. ‘But sometimes fiction can help us explore life. We can imagine how things might be in certain situations.’

‘I don’t want people imagining how it was to lose my parents in a fire,’ Miki said. ‘It’s too sad.’

Geraldine nodded. ‘Yes, good point—that did sound a little insensitive. I’m not trying to trivialise what you went through, Miki—it must have been terrible. What I’m trying to say is that books can help us to empathise with other experiences. Do you see what I’m getting at?’

Miki nodded, but she didn’t see at all. Why would you want to recreate suffering?