Abandoning their tools, they squelch their way down the muddy furrow, their boots slipping and sliding beneath them until they reach the grass margin. In the lane, they hunch against the inclement weather, chilled to their cores and longing for the warmth of indoors.

They pay little heed to the roar of the motorbike in the distance. As it careers around the approaching corner they edge to the side of the road, but the bike drops down a gear and soon slows to a stop, waiting for them.

‘Not the best weather to labour in, ladies.’

The rider’s head is protected by a leather aviator’s cap, its flaps hanging loose over his ears, while his face is obscured by a pair of goggles which he now pushes back onto his forehead.

‘You can say that again.’ Nora’s smile is more dazzling for the sheen of damp it defies. ‘A hot cup of tea is all I want right now … well, that and to get out of these wet clothes …’ She allows her gaze to linger. The rider chuckles, studying her afresh. She boldly meets his curiosity.

‘Now that sounds like an eminently sensible plan.’

‘That’s a rather fancy bike you’re riding.’

‘It’s a new acquisition. You like bikes?’

‘I’m rather partial. It’s a Vincent Comet, isn’t it?’

‘I’m impressed.’

‘She’s a beauty,’ Nora says, an impudent smile gracing her lips.

‘Yes, she is.’ His words seem to convey double meaning. ‘We’ll have to see about taking you for a spin, since you like bikes so much.’ He throws her a lopsided grin as he lowers his goggles. The engine roars as he twists the throttle.

‘Ladies … till we meet again.’ With a mock salute and a devilish grin, he is gone. Nora lets out a low whistle.

‘Blimey, who was that?’

Gwen shakes her head, professing ignorance with a twitch of her shoulders. The rain’s cadence is drowned out by the thud of her heart.

They run the last couple of hundred yards, as the heavens sicken of the rain and seek to unload the clouds in a thunderous deluge. They burst in through the back door, Nora squealing as she shakes herself off like a dog. Muriel puts on the kettle.

Gwen yearns to be alone. Her thoughts are a churning torrent that she cannot fight free of. She is about to slip away to her bedroom when Muriel calls for her to rid herself of her coat, and she stops, confused, until she sees rain dripping from her mackintosh, staining the flags. Her numb fingers fumble with its fastenings. She passes it into Nora’s waiting hand and steps up into the hall.

Tom runs in from the sitting room, holding out a picture for her approval. She casts an absent appraisal over it and delivers empty words of praise.

‘You didn’t even look at it properly,’ he pouts.