In the turkey shed, I hook up my bird and pluck and pluck and pluck like nothing’s happened. My feet are numb with cold and wet, my knees throb from the stones. I keep plucking, plunging my fingers into the greasy feathers and ripping them out until all that’s left is a lank carcass of bird. It’s quiet in the shed tonight. There’s no squabbling noise from the pen outside. All the turkeys have been slaughtered by now.

Luke and Rob stand close together, plucking.

After a few minutes, Shane comes in and strides over to the end of the shed to fetch his bird. He hangs it up and begins to pluck.

Then it’s like we’re in competition. Who can pluck the fastest. Who can strip a bird without stopping. Our hands dip in and out together. We throw feathers in each other’s direction. I pile up three naked birds in twenty minutes. They flop over each other in my basket and I just keep going to get more.

‘You OK?’ Rob leans across. His clean L’Oreal scent wafts over me as he glances down at my ripped muddy tights. ‘You’re quiet.’

I smile at his flawless cheeks. ‘I’m fine.’

Luke puts a hand on Rob’s shoulder and shoves his skinny blond head between us. ‘Can you hear the spacky grunting?’ he asks. ‘He sounds like a pregnant pig.’

‘He’s working hard,’ I say.

‘Is he – ’ Luke puckers his lips and makes a kissing sound, ‘your boyfriend?’

‘No, he is not.’ I rip out a handful of feathers and throw them at Luke’s face.

He picks a feather off his lip and examines it for a minute. Then he says, ‘He’s your boyfriend.’

‘He is not my boyfriend. Shane is not my boyfriend.’ I spit out each word.

I glance over at Shane. He stops plucking, just for a second. Then he starts again, double-fast.

Rob clears his throat. ‘We’re leaving in the New Year. We’ve got enough.’

Sheepskin Coat comes over. ‘Less chat, more work, you lot.’ He lifts Rob’s bird by its wing so it seems about to fly to the side. ‘Don’t forget these bits underneath. No one wants a mouthful of turkey fluff with their sprouts.’

He nudges Shane between the shoulder blades with his clipboard. ‘You’re my best worker, Shane Pearce,’ he says. He holds the clipboard above his head and raises his voice. ‘Everyone. Look at Shane’s birds. Bald as your sister’s arse. That’s how all of them should be.’

Shane doesn’t stop plucking.

When Sheepskin Coat’s gone, I step away from my bird, wipe a hand on my skirt and fold my fingers over Rob’s arm. His donkey jacket looks rough, but it feels smooth. ‘I’ve got enough now,’ I say, ‘to come with you.’

Rob ups his killer lashes.