Gwen and Nora are weeding the swedes in Ten Acre. A fine rain has been plaguing them since mid-morning, just enough to soak the ground and make the task muddy and unpleasant. Tom has remained at home with Muriel, and seeing the dark clouds building on the horizon, Gwen is pleased he has.

She pauses to stretch out her bent spine and roll relief into her knotted shoulders. Her fingers are black with dirt and her nails lined with grime. She wipes the sleeve of her coat across her face. The rain might be fine but given long enough they will be soaked through. She looks again at the sky. The draining light and building wind suggest there is a downpour on the way. She grips the long handle of her hoe and digs under a thick mat of chickweed, ignoring the sting of a burst blister at the base of her right thumb.

‘Did I ever tell you how much I hate weeding?’ Nora calls out, her hands pressed into the small of her back. Strands of dark hair have sprung free from her headscarf and now stick to her forehead like kiss curls.

‘On many occasions.’

‘Just checking. It’s even worse doing it in the rain in case you were wondering.’

Gwen snorts and wields her hoe once again, its metal head chinking against the bone-coloured fragments of flint embedded in the soil. She is pleased to see the swedes’ broad leaves so thick and healthy. The summer has not baked them, and whilst the rain is unpleasant to work in, it’s much needed.

The wind whips up. The trees in the hedge line creak and groan as it bullishly makes its way through their laden branches. Nora yelps as she is forced to slap a hand onto her scarf to prevent it lifting away. Gwen looks across the furrow and laughs. The gusting wind sends needles of rain into her face. She bows away from it.

As quickly as the wind blows up, so it dies, leaving heavy rain in its wake. Gwen can feel it trickling under the collar of her shirt and the earth slickens beneath her feet. The softened soil releases the weeds with good grace, but even though it is mild the wet chills her and her fingers are soon numb. She glances at her watch, wiping droplets from the glass so she can see the face clearly. In the distance, there is a rumble of thunder.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, this is miserable,’ she cries to Nora. ‘Let’s break early for lunch, see if we can’t give it time to clear.’

There is another grumble from further down the valley, where inky clouds are cloaking the sky. Nora throws down her hoe.

‘I’m not going to argue – and I don’t fancy being turned into a lightning conductor either.’

‘Nor me.’