The strange thing – the thing I hadn’t imagined – was that each turkey’s wings were spread out on either side. As they were plucked, the birds bobbed in the air, and their wings made a flapping motion, as if they might still fly away.

Robert was standing next to Luke. Their hands worked to the same rhythm as they tugged handfuls of feathers away from the turkeys. I noticed the girl from the shop was standing on the other side of Robert. Her bright hair was littered with feathers, and she was turned slightly towards my son, as if she was listening for his next words. Opposite her, on the other side of the shed, stood the large bulk of Derrick Pearce’s son, the boy everyone knew, even then, to be backward. While he ripped the plumage from the headless turkey before him, he stared at the girl.

I took my hat off and felt my forehead prickle in the cold air.

The girl looked over and saw me. She nudged Robert.

Robert looked around. As soon as our eyes met, he flicked his away and turned back to his bird.

The girl nudged Robert again and gestured in my direction, but Robert would not turn around.

Derrick Pearce’s boy unhooked his bird. He had a feather stuck to his big bottom lip. The turkey’s bloody neck hung down by his thigh. He threw the limp naked bird into his basket and walked to the end of the shed to get another. As he did so, he trailed one hand along the edge of the girl’s short skirt. She stepped away from him.

‘Robert,’ I called. The sound of chattering turkeys outside was still loud, even with the shed door closed, and I tried to raise my voice. ‘Robert.’

The girl smiled at me. Her lipstick was so light, her mouth looked like it was covered in frost.

‘Robert,’ I called his name again.

The man with the clipboard approached.

‘Can I help?’ He raised his eyebrows, which were the same colour as his sheepskin coat.

‘I’m here to speak to my son, Robert Hall,’ I said, nodding in Robert’s direction.

The man walked over to Robert and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Rob,’ he shouted, ‘Your dad’s here. Go and see what he wants.’

The other boys near Robert laughed. Derrick Pearce’s boy laughed the loudest.

Robert left his half-plucked turkey swinging from its hook and came over to where I stood in the doorway.

‘What do you want?’

‘Shall we go outside?’ I suggested.

‘No. What do you want?’

‘I think maybe we should talk outside.’

‘I’m fine here,’ he said, crossing his arms.

I tried to push the word gypsy from my mind as I looked at his glinting earring.

‘What do you want, Dad? I’ve got work to do.’

‘I wanted to tell you something.’